Pants on Fire.

We had a tiny little insignificant little house fire here the other day.  We’re fine, the house is fine (smelly, but fine), the dryer and the load of laundry in it is decidedly not fine. 

The fire department said that some piece of clothing in the dryer caught fire, and that’s how it all began.  I’ll probably never know what it was, as the cremains of what was in the dryer are pretty unidentifiable.

The Hot Pants were NOT in the dryer, but they were near the dryer, patiently waiting their turn for a wash.  So between the char, chemicals, and firefighter boots, they’re looking a little…. burnt out right now.  Hah.

So please excuse me for a bit while i take a Hot Pants Hiatus and see if i can get these puppies cleaned up.

 

Published in: on August 12, 2013 at 1:56 am  Leave a Comment  

Sweaty Boop.

(Yes, i will take a bad joke and run with it.  I’m not a genius with titles.)

I skipped the Hot Pants on Tuesday to be a lady of leisure, but i put them back on for today’s Pickleball and Zumba. 

Now, i can’t blame the pants on getting smacked in the nose with a ball.

Or for falling on my giant ass on my next point. (I got the point, that’s the important part!)

Well, maybe for that bit, because again, the sweat was coming out so fast and furious from the bottoms of the pants, i may have actually slipped in my sweat.  Gross. And ow.

I felt like crap afterwards, but because i love you, i bravely soldiered on my way to Zumba, just to see how i’d do.

And not surprisingly, by the end, i was completely soaked, bathed, covered in sweat.  It was vile.  It looked like i’d jumped in a pool (a smelly gross pool) and gone swimming.  My socks were dripping. 

Is all that sweat good for me?  Some people say that sweat releases toxins.  Some people say that sweat is fat crying.  Some people say that sweat is simply your body’s way to cool you down… no more, no less.

Anyway, i didn’t wear them to Zumba, round 2, because my Zumba teacher told me not to, and i totally always do what my Zumba teacher says.  (She didn’t say that it was because i smelled like a gorilla at the end, but she’s too sweet to do that.  And i didn’t question her, because i didn’t want to hear that i smelled like a gorilla.)

It’s just as well, as by the time that it was time for zumba again, my clothes were still soaked and gross.  I was happy to wear something else.

So yeah, Zumba round 2 was great fun, less sweaty.  And as far as seeing results, i’m pretty sure i’m fatter than ever.  So yeah…. i’ll keep on keepin’ on.

Due to today’s injuries, i doubt i’ll be hot pantsing it tomorrow.  I think i’m going to limp into the gym and swim laps. 

Published in: on August 8, 2013 at 1:41 am  Leave a Comment  

Day One: Sweaty Crocker

So i ended up skipping my usual first morning exercise class (Kettlebells) due to the first day of camp, concerns about drop-off, various errands, etc.  But i made it to Pilates already sweating, thanks to the outfit.

It was comfortable enough, but looked awfully bunchy in the mirror.  This was easily remedied by simply closing my eyes for the entire class.   If anyone else had to see me looking all rumply and weird in the mirror, that’s their own fault.  They should be able to follow Pilates cues with their eyes closed, so there.

I didn’t get my heart rate monitor until after class, so no information there.  I was quite eager to get the clothes off when i got home, because i felt so gross and damp, especially around my thighs.

Thankfully, the sweat damp was gone when i put them back on 5 hours later for Zumba.  I warned many people in class about my experiment, so now everyone can know me instead of the weird lady who can’t dance as the weird lady in the noisy pants who can’t dance.  It’s always good to switch things up.

I’ve learned that neoprene plus neoprene = hate.  The shirt hates the pants and wants to ride up.  Thankfully, i’m one of those annoying people who wears a hip scarf to Zumba (mostly to annoy my friend aimy, which is funny, since she lives thousands of miles away and can’t hear the jingling, but there you go…), so i just retied the jingle belt in a weird way to keep my stomach from showing.

Now i like to shake it in Zumba, and i was feeling pretty good tonight.  My heart rate report says that i spent most of the hour with my heart rate between 125-170. (my resting rate is around 70.)  I got a good workout.

but the sweat.  oh my.  the sweat.

By the end of class, it was pouring down my legs and leaving puddles on the floor.  It was disgusting.  And embarrassing.  I was laughing like a lunatic during the cooldown, because every time i moved, more sweat just poured out like someone turned on a faucet.  I felt totally sorry for everyone around me.

I am not looking forward to tomorrow.  Or the next 13 days, really.  I might end up flooding the gym at this rate.

Published in: on August 6, 2013 at 2:01 am  Comments (1)  

Drop it like it’s Hot Pants.

I’ve always wanted to be one of those investigative reporters who orders stupid things to see if they’re really helpful.  You know, can i spray that magic crap on a screen door and go fishing on it?  Can i repaint my car with this … stuff… that somehow knows the color of my car and hides all the scratches?  Can these exercise pants really make me lose 2 jean sizes in two weeks?

I went with the latter, because all my workout pants are getting a little tatty, so hey – why not?  I’m taking one for the team.  Do the Zaggora pants really do what they claim?

I ordered a pair of the hot pants in black, and a shirt in bright pink.  Get used to it, because if you see me at the gym, that’s what i’ll be wearing starting on Sunday (or Monday) for the next two weeks. 

I’m not going to change my amount of exercise, or my eating.  But starting on Monday, i will be wearing a monitor that will be showing my heart rate during exercise, so we should get a complete picture of what’s going on during my workouts.  Will these pants be the magic key to weight loss?

I could give you all my starting stats, but it would only embarrass me and disgust you.  I might, however, take a picture of my gut hanging out of the jeans that i’d like to get back in, that fit just fine before… well.. never you mind what happened (it might involve a mad affair with the Good Humor man and an ice cream baby). 

We’ll start with the basics:  Fit, appearance, etc.

The fit is what i would deem true to size, in that it fits in the same size that most other exercise pants/shirts do.  So if you wear a large, you’ll probably be fine in a large, etc. 

There is no denying that this stuff looks weird.  It doesn’t look like typical exercise wear, and the thickness of the material probably adds some extra bulk.  Since i’m carrying my own extra bulk, that doesn’t particularly bother me.  I’m not at the stage where clothes make me look fat, my fat makes me look fat, so no one is going to be all that surprised to see me show up looking fatter.  Also, the top is compressing in an odd and non-flattering way.  Still, if it gets me back in my jeans without any extra effort on my part, it’ll all be worth it.  Right?  RIGHT??  (Lie to me if you must.  I don’t care.)

The sound of the clothes is horrible.  It’s all neoprene, so if part of your exercise routine is sneaking up on people and scaring them, this is definitely not the clothing for you.  If you’re self-conscious about being noisy, go to classes where the music is loud, or wear earbuds.

I will say that it certainly makes you hot. Just trying on the outfit for size made me sweat.  We’ll see how i do when i actually have to move in it. 

I’ll update on Sunday.  Or Monday.  Or both.  Or neither.  Because i’m just that predictable and awesome.

Published in: on August 3, 2013 at 2:20 pm  Leave a Comment  

Smoke and shadows.

Hi, my name is Meg, and i’m bi-polar.

I haven’t written those words in a completely public forum yet, until right now.  Why?  Because i’m ashamed?  Because i don’t think people would believe me?  Because i know how peoples’ minds work in regards to mental illness.  ‘It’s her fault.’  ‘She’s making it up to excuse her behavior.’  ‘She needs Jesus.’  I know all of them.  I know.

Why am i telling you this?

A wise friend, who is also bi-polar, told me this thing.  It’s a true thing.

‘When you’re bipolar, things are not always what they seem.’

It’s so true.  So absolutely true.  When you’re up, you love everyone and everyone loves you.  And when you’re down, the blinders come off, and you see people for who and what they are.  The people who can’t get enough of you when you’re on top are gone, and you’re left struggling, alone, adrift, wondering what the hell just happened.

At least, that’s the truth when you’re depressed.  I suspect reality is somewhere in the middle.

When i was younger, i had a cat who was nearly blind.  He’d stalk pinprick holes in the walls and attack nothing.  Funny, but useless.  A waste of energy.  But that was his reality. 

Am i that cat, swiping at walls and hissing at shadows? 

It was easy enough to help the cat.  I turned on some lights and hung some pictures over the holes, and he settled down. 

Anyone want to come do that for me? 

Published in: on July 27, 2013 at 10:30 pm  Leave a Comment  

You’d better put the fun in it.

Before i write this, i need to preface this with an important message: This is not triggered by any hidden news. I did not get any alarming medical diagnosis. I am not planning on offing myself. I do not have any secret foreshadowing of impending doom. As far as i know, i’m on track to die of a heroin overdose when i’m 111 when i’ve taken my teeth out a final time to pay for my smack habit as a geriatric hooker.

I love those people who say ‘If anything should happen to me.’

If? Are you part of some secret master race where nothing bad will ever happen to you? Is dying an option for you? I mean, i thought it was just something that happened to everyone, there is no if. It’s a when. You are born, you die. It’s simple. There’s no ‘if’. But maybe you’re special. I don’t know.

So when i die. Not if. When. Not ‘when something happens to me.’ When. I. Die. This is what needs to happen:

Hubby darling already knows that my body needs to be in the cheapest, most biodegradable box possible. Preferably, it should say ‘Frigidaire’ on the side, and it was stolen from Appliance Sales Plus in the dead of night the night before my funeral. If you see me in some fancy box, you’d better drag my dead ass out of it and put me in some cheap piece of shit because i am NOT going to rot in something that costs over finny bucks.

If there are nasty Gardenias at my funeral, i will come back from the dead and beat the living shit out of all of you.

If no one stands up and tells funny stories about me, i will have failed. If my funeral isn’t full of people laughing until they cry, and then laughing some more, i totally failed. If no one bursts into song, or does an interpretive dance around my ghetto coffin, well, i haven’t done something right.

So there ya go. When i die, come to my funeral, play some Nawlins jazz, talk about that one time i did that dumbass thing, sing, and dance. That’s all i ask.

Now that my last wishes are public, i can sleep tonight, content that if i get hit by a bus tomorrow*, all will be well.

*Getting hit by a bus is a really remote possibility in Mahopac. There are barely any buses, and it would be nearly impossibly for that cliche’ to happen.

Crap. Now that i said it, i’m going to be road pizza. Oops. Um… I love you all? Feel free to laugh at my ironic death?

Published in: on April 12, 2013 at 2:43 am  Leave a Comment  

I know i’m broken, but you can’t fix it okay?

Here’s the thing:  I don’t seem to get cold like regular people.  Everyone else is bundled up like Eskimos and i’m wandering around in a tank top covered in sweat.  I am assuming that this is because i’m covered in a beautiful, whale-like layer of blubber, but it could possibly be that i’m just messed up.

I don’t mind running hot.  It cuts down on my need for sweaters, and i rarely lose gloves because i never wear them.  When everyone else wears 20 extra layers, and i’m in my usual one, i only look a little bit fatter than everyone else!  (Okay, this part isn’t actually true, but it totally makes me feel better, so go along with me, allrighty?)

You know what i do mind though?  I mind everyone who sees me wandering around in my tank top stopping to ask me ‘Are you cold?’  As in, ‘Hey dummy, are you too stupid to put on a jacket?’

Look people, if i were cold, i’d wear a jacket.  It’s pretty simple.  Do i look that stupid?  I guess i do.   And i usually smile sweetly, and say ‘I don’t really get cold’ and everyone looks at me disbelievingly, because obviously i’m just making this up to annoy strangers on the street.

So i’ve decided to change it up a bit.  When people ask me if i’m cold i’m going to stop dead and stare at them.  ‘Is THAT what this sensation is called?  HOLY CRAP, I didn’t know!  I guess i AM… what’s that word that you just used?  Cold?  I am!  Help!  What do i do about it?’

At least this way, they’ll be distracted enough to stop asking if i’m cold, and start asking if i’m crazy.  And then i’ll be all ‘Hey, i’m not the one going around quizzing random strangers on their perceived body temperature.  Who’s crazy now, bitch?!?’

 

 

Published in: on January 25, 2013 at 8:44 pm  Leave a Comment  

A true thing.

The world is full of words.  A lot of them are meaningless.  A lot of them are outright lies, and there are half truths, mostly truths, and truths according to one’s perception.

Hearing an absolute truth is rare, and it’s always an experience.

My friend Paul spoke an absolute truth today.  When you hear an absolute truth, you know.  The universe stops, when that stunning, bell-like clarity comes out.  You lose your breath.  It’s an amazing experience.

What this truth was isn’t actually important.  It wasn’t pleasant, but so much of the truth isn’t, now is it?  He was inclined to be apologetic.

Why?  I said.  An absolute truth is.  You merely gave voice to it.  You didn’t bring it into being.

This is absolutely pointless, except that i just wanted to remember the experience of being smacked upside the head with a real true thing.

Published in: on January 25, 2013 at 8:29 pm  Leave a Comment  

Good try, Grandma.

There i was, standing in the gym, minding my own business, when a woman came up to me to admire my baby.

‘What a gorgeous baby!’ she gushed over the lump of adorable who sat on my hip. ‘Are you grandma?’

Snarl, weep, sigh. Really? REALLY? Mid-thirties, and people think i’m a grandma? It’s enough to make a girl punch someone in the face.

But, because i am the soul of restraint, i did not punch her in the face. Oh, also? Because i was holding the baby on my good punching arm.

But i came home, took a long look in the mirror, and decided that things have to change.

I’m never going to the gym again.

Hah! Where else can i get 2 hours of free childcare every day? Time for plan B.

I googled. And came up with a million ideas. I’ll improve my posture. Cut out refined flour and sugar. Wear more coconut oil on my face. Drink more water. Drink green tea. Brush my teeth with peroxide, baking soda, and self-loathing. Whatever it takes.

But now, being hungry, smelling of coconut oil, and drinking tea that tastes suspiciously like dirt, i’m wondering if looking like a geezer ain’t actually all that bad.

No. Screw it. I’ll be fine with looking like a grandma when i am one. Until then, dirt tea. Ugh. I can only hope Tori will be a teen mother.

(That was a joke. Laugh. It was funny.)

Published in: on September 22, 2012 at 5:52 pm  Leave a Comment  

In which our heroine tries Zumba:

I am not a dancer. Okay, saying that i am not a dancer is like saying that fish are not cats. I mean, Meg and dance are just not related. At all. I count it as a good day when i walk without tripping more than twice. The words ‘graceful’, ‘beautiful’, or ‘dancer’ will never apply to me, unless humans imitating the dancing hippos in Fantasia suddenly comes into fashion.

But i am nothing if not adventurous, and maybe a little angry at humankind, because i’m willing to inflict my version of dancing on the world. And i like to jump around and burn calories as efficiently as possible. I figure that Zumba is probably better at it than watching Judge Judy while trying not to fall on my face on the treadmill.

So yeah. I walked into a Zumba class, with absolutely no idea what to expect. I mean, i think i was expecting something like an aerobics class (which took me approximately a decade to master) where the instructor calls out instructions and you follow them. Easy Peasy. Or something. So when the instructor, whose body looks like the human ideal of what a body could look like, with the right combination of genes, luck, and very hard work, asked who was new to Zumba, i dutifully raised my hand.

‘Okay, here’s what you do,’ she said kindly, leaning close to me. I leaned in too, hoping for some wisdom, or some quick instruction.

‘Dance,’ she said, pointing at her svelte and beautiful chest, ‘from here.’

For a brief moment, i was confused. Was i supposed to dance with my boobs? Was i supposed to bring tassles? But she continued:

‘Dance from your heart, and you’ll be fine.’

Oh. Um. Okay. I quickly tried to get in touch with my heart, to ask its help in helping me move. My heart was no help, as it murmured something about wine and Doritos and went back to sluggishly pumping blood. Asshole heart.

So with the instruction aside, the gorgeous-bodied instructor launched into a series of steps that i could barely track with my eyes, let alone follow with my feet, and the whole class, like some freakish scene from ‘Fame’ followed along. How did they all know how to do this? Why was that 80 year old woman in front of me with a cane able to follow this when i was barely able to march without falling on my face?

Oh crap, everyone switched directions. Oops. Okay, facing the back wall. Oh shoot, now everyone’s front again. Wait! Don’t run me over! Oh… i see, i was supposed to go left. Now right. Now jump. Now … what’s that called? Shake my what now? Why is everyone yelling? Ack!

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and the reflection of the red-faced fat lady wearing a too-baggy shirt in dire need of a root job trying hopelessly to imitate the godess at the front of the class completely undid me and i started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

And in that moment, i fell in love with Zumba.

You weren’t expecting that, were you? Well, neither was i.

See, my kids humiliate me allll the time. Every time i take them out in public, one of them picks their nose, or their butt, or throws an epic tantrum, and the world judges. I am a horrible mother. I should not have had children. Blah blah blah.

So you see, it’s really refreshing to be an idiot on my own merits.

So i keep going back. The teachers are kind enough not to wince as i waddlingly slink in, and so far, i haven’t injured myself or anyone else. I figure after a few more months, the 80 year old with the cane will have some serious competition in the dance department.  Maybe my heart will stop craving marshmallow stuffed Rolos too.  Yeah, like that’ll ever happen…..

Published in: on August 23, 2012 at 2:27 am  Comments (1)  
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.