Fire away....
I did not go to gym more than 1 day last week. We've been trying to reconcile 30 years of dusty, musty parts for returns. It's an arduous task and one that takes time. Time, we don't have. It's also hard to reconcile the loss of the business ane what I need to do to take care of my body.
We decided to close our business, the economy has tanked and the Landlord is entirely inflexible in even considering reducing the rent. They believe they can fill this space in a couple of months, essentially evicting us. I guess filing an unlawful detainer says it all. Much luck to them... they are richer than God, and frankly, most retail spaces in better locations are renting for 1/3 of market value. So what that the hell, we get out now, avoid massive debt, and start looking for jobs for ourselves.
Meanwhile, last week, my emotional response to this has been a compete inability to eat anything more than half a sandwich if that, per day, which makes it impossible to have energy to work out. I'm hoping to have more energy to get to the gym this week. I need to keep my body in to form. Hard to do when your body is rejecting food.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
I met Stein at the gym last night (Thursday) to photo his X-training class. Of course, he didn't show up with his camera, as he promised to do... but I had. This was his usual "gotcha" in that he wanted to do the class. Frankly, I am a little intimidated; i.e. I don't know who's in the class, what their levels are, and I'm both a little afraid I'll fail and also extremely competitive. So I spend the hour trying to get shots of the class, of Stein, of him doing what he does so well... and I'm not even an amateur photography, so it was really hard to get clear, clean photos of him doing the training part, because the only time dude stands still is when he's checking his stop watch. That's good for the class; bad for the photographer. It was, however, quite interesting to have the opportunity to watch the class, the people involved and what was going on. It was organized -- well organized-- chaos. Stein does a good job at this, and if he markets himself well enough, he could be a top-class trainer. I don't know if he knows this, but he's good enough to be training firefighters, cops, and other law enforcement officers.
Carter showed up right after the 20 minute warm-up, and I told Carter to just jump in. Since the rest of the class were on a two minute "break", Stein just told Carter to do 1 minute rope jumps and 100 jumping jacks... which would make the rest of the class break into pieces, but Stein knows Carter can just fucking hump it, and so he did ....
It was interesting to watch a bunch of people (about 14 altogether, only two men), at different levels of fitness doing a vague approximation of Crossfit. Honestly, I wasn't really inspired to join in, though as the photographer I didn't have the option of going 50/50, obviously.
The thing is, in group classes, 2 or 3 people are lean, mean and ready to work, and have no problems. Everyone else struggles with one or another exercise, and are really working hard with a positive attitude, or at least an approachable attitude.
Two people in the entire group -- both fit, trim, attractive women -- kept the steely faces of those who know they are so much beyond the rest they don't have to put on a friendly face. it's interesting to see.... these ones who "know" they look good versus the ones who are trying so hard to just get to a place where their self-esteems allow them to feel good.
The cocky pretty ones make me want to kick them in the ass; the other ones, I want to encourage and help and work with. The odd thing is, those pretty, cocky ones -- those are the ones that my rigth hook would drop dead like a fucking piece of meat. The other ones, the ones without the thin, slim, trim bodies, would fight back, because by damn they are trying way too hard to get outdone by an old-ass shit-kicker like me. I appreciate that.
Honestly, I used to be a hot chick. When I was 3o, I was something to see. And now I'm watching women half my age do half what I can do, and they are doing it. And so can I, and I too have to work hard, though I've been doing this for over a year. But I still have to remind myself that I can do it, and that I will do... and then... just DO IT.
Tomorrow (Saturday) is a crossfit day, and Carter and I are going to do a Fucked Up 47 or something like that after work. And on Sunday, I give my 23 year old son a crossfit training session. Maybe a little workout for myself as well, in his uberfashionableultragym.
I promise not to get the attitude that I'm better, holier than thou, stronger, faster, better... and that somehow that makes me a better person. It's not that I feel that way, 'cause I don't 'cause I'm just not there. But what makes me a better person is to continue to keep myself healthy and strong, and hopefully, to share what I know about getting to this fitter self with others.
Carter showed up right after the 20 minute warm-up, and I told Carter to just jump in. Since the rest of the class were on a two minute "break", Stein just told Carter to do 1 minute rope jumps and 100 jumping jacks... which would make the rest of the class break into pieces, but Stein knows Carter can just fucking hump it, and so he did ....
It was interesting to watch a bunch of people (about 14 altogether, only two men), at different levels of fitness doing a vague approximation of Crossfit. Honestly, I wasn't really inspired to join in, though as the photographer I didn't have the option of going 50/50, obviously.
The thing is, in group classes, 2 or 3 people are lean, mean and ready to work, and have no problems. Everyone else struggles with one or another exercise, and are really working hard with a positive attitude, or at least an approachable attitude.
Two people in the entire group -- both fit, trim, attractive women -- kept the steely faces of those who know they are so much beyond the rest they don't have to put on a friendly face. it's interesting to see.... these ones who "know" they look good versus the ones who are trying so hard to just get to a place where their self-esteems allow them to feel good.
The cocky pretty ones make me want to kick them in the ass; the other ones, I want to encourage and help and work with. The odd thing is, those pretty, cocky ones -- those are the ones that my rigth hook would drop dead like a fucking piece of meat. The other ones, the ones without the thin, slim, trim bodies, would fight back, because by damn they are trying way too hard to get outdone by an old-ass shit-kicker like me. I appreciate that.
Honestly, I used to be a hot chick. When I was 3o, I was something to see. And now I'm watching women half my age do half what I can do, and they are doing it. And so can I, and I too have to work hard, though I've been doing this for over a year. But I still have to remind myself that I can do it, and that I will do... and then... just DO IT.
Tomorrow (Saturday) is a crossfit day, and Carter and I are going to do a Fucked Up 47 or something like that after work. And on Sunday, I give my 23 year old son a crossfit training session. Maybe a little workout for myself as well, in his uberfashionableultragym.
I promise not to get the attitude that I'm better, holier than thou, stronger, faster, better... and that somehow that makes me a better person. It's not that I feel that way, 'cause I don't 'cause I'm just not there. But what makes me a better person is to continue to keep myself healthy and strong, and hopefully, to share what I know about getting to this fitter self with others.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Magic
Well so I lose my trainer due to economic disaster, and then my back goes into some inexplicable and excruciating spasm. Why is it that I always have some weird shit that comes about for no particular reason? I'm in great shape. My body is strong. My back should be the very last thing... but there it went. I spent the day in the hospital, listening to some poor Born Again Christian Chick try to explain to the cops who hauled her in that she wasn't a danger to herself... she was just having a bad fucking day. God is her magic, or that's what I overheard as she yelled at various people into her cell phone while the cops grumbled and scoffed at her. She wasn't crazy. She was living her life. Then the goddamn cops came around and she was just having a bad day. The psychiatrist who evaluated finally gave her a clean bill and they took off the hand cuffs and let the poor lady go home.
Wow. Guess I have nothing to complain about.
My friend, Tom Frank, writes a beautiful blog called "Reverie". The beauty of Tom's blogs is what he really is all about: making people happy. He is a magician not just because he loves it (which he does), but because magic makes people happy. He works day in and day out, sometimes making money, sometimes not, simply hoping to make people happy. A few bucks wouldn't hurt, I suppose, but making people happy is really important to him.
Tom recently blogged about an old friend, Jim Cellini, who has had a stroke. He's in Germany, I believe, and I haven't seen him in over 20 years. But it still hurts to know that this great magician and busker -- this great man -- is nearing the end of his days. If not the end, certainly the end of doing what he loved doing. Cellini, though not dead and I don't mean this as an epitaph, was the source of enormous pleasure for thousands, if not tens of thousands of people all over the world. And he trained some of the most wonderful magicians I personally have ever met, and many, many others who I have never met. I've been out of the world of magic for a long time now, but I know that Jim gave his all to make people happy. And he made me happy for the time I lived near him in North Carolina. Jim Cellini was another guy who believed in me. It's a kinda long story, but he loved my singing voice, and asked me to sing Billie Holiday songs at his nightclub, Buskers. I was too shy and couldn't hang with the stress. but what a time I had standing on the stage in the empty club, microphone in hand, belting out "God Bless the Child", while Jim beamed at me and clapped enthusiastically. What a terrific, inspirational, wonderful man.
And my oldest, dearest friend, Thalia, is visiting from Nicaragua, and we spent an interesting evening talking about some painful parts of our past and I cried. She makes me happy with her magic, even through the tears. She's a filmmaker and currently working with the poorest of Nicaraguan teenagers, teaching them the craft of film-making, letting them tell their own stories and helping them to find a voice in a world where they have no voice. Thalia is struggling to make ends meet, and she hustles like a pimp without a 'ho, but damn that woman is magic.
Magic is my little Buster, my grandson. He makes me smile, even though at 12 days old he doesn't do much other than look amazed at everything around him. You see, to Buster (that's my nickname for him), the entire world is magic. It's amazing to me that people don't see that about babies, and that's why we have to treat them gently and quietly and with great respect. Everything they experience is magic, and every time is the first time, for whatever it is. The smell of bacon in the morning. The sounds of singing. The loud, rude adult voices. The feeling of warm water rushing over their bodies. Everthing is magic. It's not all good. We need to remember that and treat them like tiny, new magicians, ready to take on the world and do amazing feats never before seen by that little person in that place and at that time. Oh yes, babies are both Magic and Magicians. Buster holds me in amazement and wonder.
Magic is my son, Dashiell, who calls me every day and emails me a photo or two of Buster every night. When he was just a little guy, I relied on him -- all 20, 30, 40 pounds of him -- to provide me with enough belief in magic, because he was actually there, with me, and all mine -- to let me know that no matter what we, the two of us, would survive. Because i would make that possible. And now he is 10,000 times the man I ever imagined he would be. He is my personal magic.
Magic is that I have all the tools I need to win the Zombie war because I am strong and resilient and capable. It's sad that I lost the guy who pushes me the hardest to work as hard as I can, but it's magical that I can, in fact, do all those things he kept telling me I could do. You see, Stein is magic too, because he teaches not just preaches.
And then there's my husband: He's the man who can do 40" box jumps, who works day and night to keep things afloat so that I can sit here and feel sorry for myself and write about Magic on my blog. He's the guy I believe in so much, it's like he's Peter Pan and I believe I believe I believe. Sprinkle some fairy dust on me and I'll fly like Tinker Bell. That's what Carter does for me.
Magic, in short, is all about the extraordinary things we do that impact others that makes them smile. Gives them hope for something better and makes us all realize that we all, each and in our own ordinary ways, can impart magic in other people's lives.
Thanks to all the magic in my life who give me strength and hope and optimism.
Wow. Guess I have nothing to complain about.
My friend, Tom Frank, writes a beautiful blog called "Reverie". The beauty of Tom's blogs is what he really is all about: making people happy. He is a magician not just because he loves it (which he does), but because magic makes people happy. He works day in and day out, sometimes making money, sometimes not, simply hoping to make people happy. A few bucks wouldn't hurt, I suppose, but making people happy is really important to him.
Tom recently blogged about an old friend, Jim Cellini, who has had a stroke. He's in Germany, I believe, and I haven't seen him in over 20 years. But it still hurts to know that this great magician and busker -- this great man -- is nearing the end of his days. If not the end, certainly the end of doing what he loved doing. Cellini, though not dead and I don't mean this as an epitaph, was the source of enormous pleasure for thousands, if not tens of thousands of people all over the world. And he trained some of the most wonderful magicians I personally have ever met, and many, many others who I have never met. I've been out of the world of magic for a long time now, but I know that Jim gave his all to make people happy. And he made me happy for the time I lived near him in North Carolina. Jim Cellini was another guy who believed in me. It's a kinda long story, but he loved my singing voice, and asked me to sing Billie Holiday songs at his nightclub, Buskers. I was too shy and couldn't hang with the stress. but what a time I had standing on the stage in the empty club, microphone in hand, belting out "God Bless the Child", while Jim beamed at me and clapped enthusiastically. What a terrific, inspirational, wonderful man.
And my oldest, dearest friend, Thalia, is visiting from Nicaragua, and we spent an interesting evening talking about some painful parts of our past and I cried. She makes me happy with her magic, even through the tears. She's a filmmaker and currently working with the poorest of Nicaraguan teenagers, teaching them the craft of film-making, letting them tell their own stories and helping them to find a voice in a world where they have no voice. Thalia is struggling to make ends meet, and she hustles like a pimp without a 'ho, but damn that woman is magic.
Magic is my little Buster, my grandson. He makes me smile, even though at 12 days old he doesn't do much other than look amazed at everything around him. You see, to Buster (that's my nickname for him), the entire world is magic. It's amazing to me that people don't see that about babies, and that's why we have to treat them gently and quietly and with great respect. Everything they experience is magic, and every time is the first time, for whatever it is. The smell of bacon in the morning. The sounds of singing. The loud, rude adult voices. The feeling of warm water rushing over their bodies. Everthing is magic. It's not all good. We need to remember that and treat them like tiny, new magicians, ready to take on the world and do amazing feats never before seen by that little person in that place and at that time. Oh yes, babies are both Magic and Magicians. Buster holds me in amazement and wonder.
Magic is my son, Dashiell, who calls me every day and emails me a photo or two of Buster every night. When he was just a little guy, I relied on him -- all 20, 30, 40 pounds of him -- to provide me with enough belief in magic, because he was actually there, with me, and all mine -- to let me know that no matter what we, the two of us, would survive. Because i would make that possible. And now he is 10,000 times the man I ever imagined he would be. He is my personal magic.
Magic is that I have all the tools I need to win the Zombie war because I am strong and resilient and capable. It's sad that I lost the guy who pushes me the hardest to work as hard as I can, but it's magical that I can, in fact, do all those things he kept telling me I could do. You see, Stein is magic too, because he teaches not just preaches.
And then there's my husband: He's the man who can do 40" box jumps, who works day and night to keep things afloat so that I can sit here and feel sorry for myself and write about Magic on my blog. He's the guy I believe in so much, it's like he's Peter Pan and I believe I believe I believe. Sprinkle some fairy dust on me and I'll fly like Tinker Bell. That's what Carter does for me.
Magic, in short, is all about the extraordinary things we do that impact others that makes them smile. Gives them hope for something better and makes us all realize that we all, each and in our own ordinary ways, can impart magic in other people's lives.
Thanks to all the magic in my life who give me strength and hope and optimism.
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