working out

March Flabness

28 February 2014 by gina 5 Comments

It appears it’s that time of the year again. Where enough time has passed since the holidays that I should have shed my overindulgences. And the time of the year when I realize that I haven’t. Which also coincides nicely with time of the year when I realize I have no pants left that fit me.

Blame it on the polar vortex. Or that massive upper respiratory infection that plagued me for most of this new year. Or the three different Girl Scouts that, in us, saw easy targets and went for the kill. Whatever the excuse, I have lost my motivation along with my waistline.

So what more perfect way to celebrate my inactivity and lack of inertia than by revising this post that originally appeared here last March? Because, apparently I’ve learned nothing from my past. Enjoy!

Forgive me Tony Horton, famous trainer and creator of the ridiculously crazy P90X workouts, for I have sinned. It has been seven months since I’ve done anything that could be remotely considered a “work out”.

Since then, I have strayed from the flock. I have fallen from grace. I have sat on my derriere too long.

Yay, while I sneak in an occasional yoga class, it does not absolve me of the extra dimples on my butt cheeks.

I covet pants the next size up. I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. Gone is any trace of my professional dancing days. I alternate between wearing the same two pairs of jeans. And Tony help me if I should have to wash one. As they say, I am hitting critical mass.

Strength and flexibility have withered away, and I am now left quivering in Downward Dog. I curse your crazy Dive Bomber push-ups, as there is no way in workout hell that I can do one anymore. I place faith in your core strengthening circuit that I may be able to open a jar of pickles again sometime soon.

I have not been bringing it. Nor have I even even bought it. And I certainly haven’t done my best and forgotten the rest.

But, Tony, motivation has left me. While I realize returning to the flock could change my outlook on life and expand my wardrobe, I cannot seem to muster the energy to put in a DVD and sweat to the sight of your gloriously white teeth.

I have been swayed by the comfort of my plush sofa and the distraction of Modern Family and Breaking Bad on Netflix. Please excuse time commitments to my kids’ school that has cut in to my devotion to you and your martial arts workout. Believe me, I would much rather be gritting my teeth while my thighs are on fire during leg squats than getting suckered in to volunteer work.

I have sinned with Costco-sized bags of tortilla chips and large vats of Nutella. I have lost sight of portion size. I have been persuaded by the dark side that is Girl Scout Cookies and left-over Valentine’s Day candy. Help me, Oh Tony, get back on the path of righteous eating and Salads of Exaltation.

It has been months since I have embraced your corny jokes. It’s been even longer since I have visited with Brother Shaun T and his Insanity, or spent quality time with Leandro in his Temple of Brazilian Butts. I am but a lost, soft sheep wandering aimlessly in oversized mom jeans, dreading the shock that is Shorts Season.

Show me the way back to physical fitness, Tony Horton. Help me to resolve the error of my sloth-like ways.

I will repent with three sets of sneaky lunges, several rounds of abdominal exercises, and a host of plyometrics sessions.

In the name of the Pull-up, the Burpee, and the Mason Twist…Amen.

Filed Under: p90x, sickness, working out

5 Months After Shoulder Surgery

5 February 2014 by gina 16 Comments

One morning a couple of weeks ago, I awoke to a startling realization.

I was sleeping on my right side. The side I had shoulder surgery on. And I didn’t need traction to get me out of bed in the morning.

It was like a breakthrough. An epiphany. A revelation.

That I’m almost back to normal.

Since quite a few of you flock to this site to read about my shoulder surgery recovery (here and here), I thought I’d give a more recent update on my status.

It’s been five months since I had major shoulder surgery. At the beginning, I never thought I would feel normal again. I thought that I would continue feeling like a gimp for eternity.

And now? I hardly notice my shoulder.

I would say I have about 90% range of motion back. I can reach my arm over my head with minimal pinching feeling. I can knock back an adult beverage with just as much of a chance of it dribbling down my chin as I had before surgery. And in parenting news, I can finally reach to the backseat of the car and take away a hotly contested toy from the kids, so if that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.

As much as I fretted over my scars right after surgery, they aren’t too bad. I notice them, don’t get me wrong. But I’m getting more and more comfortable wearing tank tops at the gym, or swimsuits at the pool on vacation. The one that is really taking it’s time healing is the biceps tendon incision. But at least it’s not as vulgar as I feared.

The muscle tone on my operated arm is coming back – not to where it was, but not scrawny and saggy either. I still don’t think it looks right, or balanced to my other arm. It doesn’t sit in the socket the same way my other shoulder does, and when I lift my arms over my head, I still look like two different people. My physical therapist tells me it is due to muscular imbalance issues, and that over time it will start to resemble my other arm once I regain full strength.

I was discharged from physical therapy appointments about a month ago. That doesn’t mean I’m supposed to stop doing my exercises, though.

But it’s hard at this point. Since I’m not in much pain and have most of my range of motion back, I don’t have that nagging soreness as a red flag reminder for me to do my PT. I’m probably getting in my exercises twice a week, which isn’t nearly what it should be, but I guess better than what it could be. And if my physical therapist is reading this…I promise, I’m closing up the laptop and hitting the weights right after I hit “publish.” Wink. Wink.

I’ve been given the green light to return to yoga, running, and modified weight training, like pushups. The rule for working out is to get to a place where 3 sets of 15 reps are easy, then gradually increase the weight. So for pushups, I’m doing them against the wall, then when that’s comfortable, I can move to the couch, then the floor on my knees, etc. You know, baby steps.

Half the time, my family forgets I’ve had surgery. No one’s offering assistance when I reach up to grab something off of a high shelf (or put away the Christmas decorations all by myself, thankyouverymuch) and the kids have begun to beg to be lifted to see things.

Still, with all of the progress made so far, I still feel as if I have more work ahead of me to get back to where I used to be. While I can get by day to day without noticing my shoulder, I still hesitate to lift heavy objects. There mere thought of trying to do an actual push-up makes me cringe. There are still itches on my back I can’t reach because of tightness in my operated shoulder.

Cartwheels are not, unfortunately, in my immediate future.

However, it’s nice to envision a time when I can join my little girl in handstands and swings on the monkey bars. That goal seems more attainable now.

And I like that.

Filed Under: surgery, working out

I could have been a contender…{my attempt at a boxing class}

30 March 2013 by gina 2 Comments

I once got a mention in a New York Times dance review from a well-respected critic. Somewhere in the bowels of my memorabilia, I have that clipping. In it, I was described as being “short, but strong.” It is the only thing from a dance review that I can actually claim as a positive, and I will cling on to that with white-knuckled hands to my grave.

Now, I’m not saying I’m a brute. Heck, I have lost so much strength that there are days I can barely open up my vitamin jar. Strength is something I definitely need to work on.

So when one of my friends suggested we go try out a boxing class, I was curious.

It wasn’t until I was buckled in to the passenger seat of her moving vehicle did she divulge that the class has been known to bring participants to the brink of vomit.

Awesome.

We walked in to the boxing gym and were immediately confronted with the stench of sweat and body odor. The over-eager men at the counter got our hands all wrapped up and instructed us to find a punching bag and grab some gloves from the wall.

Used gloves. Gloves that were hung up a mere few minutes ago from the class before us.

Is that was brings folks to puking? Because the thought of cramming my hands down a stinky, damp boxing glove made me want to hurl.

I found a black pair that seemed dry and began to put them. One of the trainers came by to make sure us newbies were set, took a look at my black gloves and informed me they were too big. I’d need to trade them in for a bright pink pair.

Only, the only pink pair left on the wall? Surely the rankest, moistest gloves that could be found. It was horrifying.

However, I didn’t have time to complain or seek out another pair, as the crazy warm up had begun.

The music that started pumping through the speakers? I kid you not…Eye. Of. The. Freakin’. Tiger.

While I’m sure the tune was supposed to get you pumped up as you jogged in place, all I could do was stifle giggles and pray that Apollo Creed didn’t strut through the door at any minute. Where we also going to be towing logs through snow in this class?

Now, my friend and I had staked out the bags at the far back corner of the room to fly under the radar and go undetected. The only problem with that? When the boxing began, we couldn’t see the instructor. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d been able to understand him through his microphone.

Imagine getting instructions from Vitaly the Russian tiger in Madagascar 3, only far less intelligible, and with a thicker accent.

He’d yell things that sounded like “Crap. Crap. Jump. Ho!” My friend and I would wildly look at each other with “WTF are we supposed to do?” expressions and start blindly punching the shit out of the bags, hoping no one would notice.

Luckily the other trainers walk around and help you out, translating what the instructions were. Then the trainers pull you aside one by one and make you hit their pads like something out of a Biggest Loser episode.

For reasons I couldn’t figure out why, I could NOT do this with a straight face. The trainers were trying to build some fire by saying things like “Hit me harder! Push me back!” and I’m grinning like an idiot and trying not to pee my pants.

I wouldn’t make it one minute in Jillian Michel’s gym.

At some point during the boxing section, I realized that I had a Level 5 Wedgie. Yet, I couldn’t do anything about it with those stupid gloves on. You can’t pull at your pants. There’s no tugging capability. You’re just stuck with your wedgie/camel toe/butt crack showing.

After 30 minutes of throwing punches (yes, you read that right, 30 MINUTES), we could finally peel off the gloves. Instantly, I wished I’d just gone bare knuckled and gagged as I put my gloves on the wall. It was beyond putrid, and as much as I wanted to tough things out, I couldn’t stand the stink of my hands and ran to the bathroom. I scrubbed those babies so hard it was as if I was about to perform open heart surgery.

I got back just in time to start the ab workout. As if we hadn’t been tortured enough. It was a shocking realization that I must have left my core back in Denver. Perhaps the new homeowner has found it in the closet of my bedroom, and she could mail it back to me?

By the way, nothing’s harder than doing abdominal exercises while laughing. I don’t think I could have done this class solo, and I was so grateful to have my friend there, eye rolling and smirking along with me. While we were grateful for the calorie burn, I think this activity might be too filled with testosterone and body odor.

When I got home, I took a look at myself in the mirror. While I knew I had sweat pretty hard, I had no idea just how ridiculous I looked. Ever see a poodle after they’ve taken a bath? Yeah, I looked like that. Or like this:

Photo by Adrien Greig (Big Sumo) via Flickr

Getting home, I could barely open the front door, couldn’t lift a glass of wine that night, and feared I wouldn’t be able to open the top to the gallon of milk in the morning. While I need to regain my strength, I’ll leave the punches to the big boys.

Laila Ali, I am not.

Filed Under: working out

Beachbody confessions…

7 March 2013 by gina 1 Comment

Bless me Tony Horton, for I have sinned. It has been five months since my last P90X workout.

Since then, I have strayed from the flock. I have fallen from grace. I have sat on my derriere too long.

Yay, while I sneak in an occasional yoga class, it does not absolve me of the extra dimples on my butt cheeks.

Strength and flexibility have withered away, and I am now left quivering in Downward Dog. I curse your crazy Dive Bomber push-ups, as there is no way in workout hell that I can do one anymore. I place faith in Core Synergistics that I may be able to open a jar of pickles again sometime soon.

I have not been bringing it. Nor have I even even bought it. And I certainly haven’t done my best and forgotten the rest.

I have been swayed by the comfort of my plush sofa and the distraction of Modern Family and Mad Men. Please excuse time commitments to my kids’ school that has cut in to my devotion to you and your Kenpo. Believe me, I would much rather be gritting my teeth while my thighs are on fire during leg squats than getting suckered in to volunteer work.

Show me the way back to physical fitness, Tony Horton. Help me to resolve the error of my sloth-like ways.

I will repent with three sets of sneaky lunges, several rounds of Ab Ripper X, and a host of plyometrics sessions.

In the name of the Pull-up, the Burpee, and the Mason Twist…I sweat.

Filed Under: p90x, working out

Getting a leg up…

5 November 2012 by gina 17 Comments

Back in the day…

I didn’t think that dancing twice a week really had that much of an impact on my physical condition. I mean, I’ve been dancing for so long that it isn’t really aerobic exercise. In most rehearsals, if we weren’t running the show, there was a lot of down time; sitting around waiting for my part to come up, hanging out in the dressing room while the company ran a piece I wasn’t in; lots of stops and starts.

But it’s been four long months since I’ve danced. It’s the longest hiatus I’ve ever taken. I didn’t even take that long of a break after having my kids. Initially I thought I’d really enjoy giving my body a rest from the pounding it had taken over the years. But now? Man, I miss it.

I miss the physicality of it, the three-dimensional movement through space, the power and strength and flow and energy of dancing. I’ve tried giving myself a barre here at home a couple of times a week, but it sure doesn’t compete with the rigor of class.

Here in Ohio, however, my options are extremely limited. When we moved to Denver from NYC, I thought I was nailing the coffin shut on my dance career, but was pleasantly surprised by how much dance there was in Colorado. Hoping to find the same experience here in Ohio, I’ve been met with the opposite: a stunning realization that there ain’t a whole lot going on.

What I also didn’t expect to miss was the extra calorie burn I didn’t even know I was getting. Don’t even get me started on how rapidly I’ve been gaining weight. At first I thought maybe I had a thyroid problem, that’s how fast I was packing pounds on. Sure, maybe I need to get on a more consistent pooping schedule, but I haven’t been this big since I was pregnant with the kids. Guess I took those hours of dancing for granted. Gone with my slimmer figure is also my core strength, rotation, and flexibility. It only took two months for my body to shut down and feel old. Like a wheel grinding to a screeching halt.

While I’ll save the emotional toll this has taken for a later post, right now I’m trying to recover my body from the bowels of Couchpotatoville. I know it’s a long slow process, but I’m determined to get back in the game. I’ve started going to the gym again, taking a yoga class once or twice a week from a teacher that gently but firmly pushes me. And I’ve gotten my ass on the elliptical machine.

The last time I used these ~~evil contraptions~~ cardio machines, when it asked me my age and blinked that “35″ as the magic middle age, I had to press the DOWN button a couple of times to get to my correct age. Now? I have to press the UP arrow. A few times. Man, that stinks. At least I still get to press the down arrow for weight, because if I had to pound on the up arrow, the gym would get an shitstorm of obscenities.

Even though I’m trying to get active again, it still doesn’t compare to how my body felt while dancing. Months ago, I felt strong, vibrant, toned and sturdy. Now I feel rickety, brittle, and…aged. It feels a little like starting over, or more like I’m starting from zero. It’s a hard journey back to feeling strong again, but I’m determined to work on it. I can’t continue to feel the way I do, it’s not healthy. Physically or mentally.

Plus, I can’t afford to buy new pants.

What do you do when you’re in a physical rut? How do you get yourself back on track?

Filed Under: dancing, mid-career crisis, modern dance, working out