I Tried

If you hang around me long enough, you’ll hear me say – in a strictly non-pejorative way, I swear – “Either you’re part of the solution or you’re part of the problem”.

Or something like that.

After writing about the pending increase in Oregon’s Bottle Deposit last year, I knew that I was a part of the problem and committed to action. 

In my own charmingly procrastination prone style.

$.10 a can or bottle is a good chunk of change to literally throw away.  

Well, recycle.

Whatever.

Fine, it’s a good chunk of change to figuratively throw away.

What I ended up with was a utility room chock full of empty cans and bottles.  Heck, some were even non-alcoholic!  I was even bringing home the empty soda bottles from my lunches at work.  I was Xtopher in action.

Which, with the slightest amount of effort becomes:  Xtopher inaction.

A new problem.

Luckily, attempting to live on a budget and save money on my…quaint lil paycheck finally lit the fire needed to get me to recruit The Silver Fox as a driver and haul my recyclables to the Safeway.  

Call him conscripted.

I had fully intended to just walk to the Safeway every other week or so with a bag of empty cans and bottle jingling over my shoulder.  I try to go every Friday to stock up on lunch supplies for the coming week, anyway.

I couldn’t shake the mental image of me doing my best homeless person shamble there the streets of Portland’s swanky Pearl District.  My natural procrastination was well fed by this imagery.

Which is how I ended up in The Foxes SUV for a ten-ish block trip.  He dropped me off, parked and made the most of the inconvenience by going inside the store for some much needed oranges…

“When life gives you lemons, exchange them for oranges!” – The Fox.

Ok, he didn’t say that.

But about the time he was walking down the stairs from the parking garage to the store, I was standing in front of the Pearl Safeway’s two reverse vending recycling machines.

Oh, excuse me…the two broken reverse vending recycling machines.

Fuck me.

A homeless guy I’d woken up by walking in groggily said that someone had gone into the store to alert them to the crisis.  That sounds helpful until you factor in my uncertainty in his ability to tell me what day it was.

A very nice employee showed up as I was hauling my bags toward the ramp to the parking garage and offered to hand count my returns for me.  I gratefully accepted.  Then she suggests moving somewhere less stinky.

So I’m standing outside on the sidewalk watching helplessly while she counts my empty cans and bottles.

Of course, a crowd of homeless people with a couple bucks worth of cans each starts to gather ’round.

Oh, the optics.

If I harbored any hope of a future relationship, this would be the time our paths crossed.

$11.40 worth of counting later, I’m on my way.  I’m feeling rather unaccomplished and briefly consider drinking even less beer and soda than I have lately.  

Wine bottles are somehow exempt from the Bottle Bill.

That night, I’m wandering by The Brodega by my house and notice their new taps are featuring Barley Brown’s Pallet Jack and make a date with The Fox to grab one the next night.  

Hashtag: brainstorm

They also fill growlers.

That’s the key to my participation in improving the recycling issue: refillable growlers instead of six packs.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle after all!

So, in I walk with my growler the next night.  They fill it with an extraordinary amount of waste, but I’m kinda ok with it since The Brodega is she-she expensive and this growler will probably cost $19, based on their normal over-pricing.  By comparison, a growler fill at The Big Legrowlski is $16, I think.

$12.

That’s what my growler fill fist at The Brodega.

My favorite goddamned beer at bargain basement prices AND I just juked the whole bottle tax vs recycling conundrum.

Yes, please!

Hashtag: winning.

I Tried

This Was Me Yesterday…

…right around 8:20 PM.

To riff on the prophet, Sinead O’Connor, it had been 71 hours and six days.

It was quitting time.

Time for my weekend.

48 plus hours of elsewhere being.

My only plan was some hang time with the Silverest of Foxes and some exercise.

Oh, and a quick Sugar Detox to shock my system a bit, as my mother reminded me yesterday.  I had decided to start it on my Friday and maintain it throughout my weekend to minimize the hangriness at work…but come Tuesday night, I realized how much leftover food I had in my fridge.

Naturally, I deferred my detox plan.

Can’t waste food!

So, number one on my weekend to do list is still gym time.  Here’s a glimpse at what other big plans I hope to accomplish:

  • Finish up my leftovers, starting with this Costco size bag of Chicago style Cretors.
  • Finish s4 of Sherlock.
  • Mail Fathers Day card.
  • Do some wrap up writing…I have 18 pieces in draft status.  I’d like to get that down to 15, which seems like a reasonable goal although, I prefer to keep my projects to 10 or less.
  • Do my recycling.
  • Finish s5 of House of Cards with The Fox, but that is still eight episodes.  That might be to loftily lazy.
  • Mop the floors.
  • Find Myrtle.  When I returned from morning coffee with that aforementioned Fox, she was nowhere to be found and the place was fairly trashed.  She’s probably hiding, knowing she was a bad kitty.  But maybe my bandit – one of those drafts – got in and kidnapped her…

But, first!

Imma knock these two off my list:

Right.

Meow.

This Was Me Yesterday…

Who Knew It Was Gonna Be One Of Those Days?

…and I mean one of those weekends, really.

glenne-headly-dirty-rotten-scoundrels-1988I was on my way home from work yesterday when I read the news that Glenne Headly had died.

Say what now?

She couldn’t have been that old.

<opens google>

“62?!?”, I think.

Then – I kid you not – my next thought is, “Lucky.”

What.

The.

Hell?

I’ll tell ya what the hell, I’m staring down 50 this year and I’m conflicted about a long life versus going out possibly early with a high quality of life.

I think I’ve got 50 in my cross hairs like this:aliens-ripley-geared-up

But, I think sometimes it’s more realistically this:sigourney-weaver-as-ellen-ripley-in-alien

What’s a gay to do?  This is not the culture for Oldie Hawns, and – let’s face it – America ain’t getting greater these days.  That doesn’t just impact my patriotic identity…in this case, it’s a factual planet killer.  By extension, a long-lived Xtopher can potentially look forward to some Thunderdome bullshit in his longevity.

Then I think of my parents.

They’ve both crested their eighth decade on this dying rock, call it their early 70s.  They remarried after 20-some years of divorce.  While that’s a story that I’m sure they would say is none of my business to tell, I’m not thinking of that particular life event or even that time in their lives in this particular moment.  What comes to mind isn’t their first marriage or even their second.

It’s the time betwixt.

When my parents originally split up, we were assembled in California.  My father having pre-located there for a job, my mother and the kids joining after the school year ended for her two youngest.  I joined in the move.  For reasons I won’t bore you with here.

Other than:  California.

Being California, and divorce being trendy…Bob’s your uncle – or at least your divorce lawyer – I guess, they split up a year-ish after the SoCal reunion.

Mom took off back to the fairer pastures of Oregon with…oh, every one of her chirrun but me, also because:  California.

What’s an early 20s newly minted gay to do?

It was a decision that was quite beyond my control.

Ironically, I ended up living only blocks from my dad in SoCal, so I had a good seat as to how he stared down his own demons in his 40s.

I’ll be damned if it wasn’t quietly, as is his style.  While simultaneously doing what needed to be done.

He sure as fuck didn’t start a poorly-trafficked blog.  You know, sharing this on your social media pages would hardly kill you people.  I’m just gonna leave that hanging.

I had a chance to change my geographic scenery a few times in my early and mid-20s, be it for the wrong reasons – like a boy – or for slightly less easily judged reasons – like work – and ended up back in Oregon.

The prodigal gay.

That gave me the opportunity to witness how my mother stared down her own adversaries in her 40s.

Well, she’s my Ellen Ripley.  That same quiet acceptance of what must be done that my father demonstrated, but with the additional obstacle of responsibilities like – oh, no big deal – being a single mother.

I don’t know when this turned into some sort of vague-albeit-late Mother’s Day card or a slightly early Father’s Day post…but, well, sometimes my digressions can give you a little insight into the people – the real people – that shaped who I am.

Don’t make it weird, people.

Anyway, my psyche checks me when that unbidden “Lucky” pops into my head over Glenne Headly’s death with a “What the fuck, you little wuss…buck up.  Your shit is nothing like your parents’!”

And, so I buck uply and put dear Glenne out of my head-ly.

Sorry about that.

You know what fuckery I am met with the following day?  The reward for shoring myself up as all things nearly 50 converge on my weak-assed self?

Any guesses?

Here’s a little hint:Launch Party For The "Family Guy" Game

Adam West.

Batman.

Not to mention a killer caricature of himself.

Dead.

Aged 88.

And still cooler than I ever will be.  Just look at that bad ass.

My weak-assed little self’s least favorite counterpart – my self-bullying-snarky-assed self – was right on point to ask the big question, “Do you think your parents hear this news and think, ‘Lucky’?” because he had to live soooo long?

“No.  They probably fucking don’t, because they had to work for what they have:  a comfortable retirement in which to enjoy their family and each other – reconciliation after two decades of divorce is a goddamned gift, albeit an in the moment costly one – they didn’t have their shit handed to them by fame…so buck up, Buttercup.”

Sometimes I just want to punch my snarky-assed self in the balls.  Other times, I’m sure most everyone else does.

Looking at you, Silver Fox.

Knowing my parents, they probably think something more along the lines of, “Poor Bastard” because, while his death will be mourned by the fans accrued over the course of decades of Batman notoriety, they measure their success not in fans or dollars, but rather in their shared pride in the family they built and will leave behind.

Whatever legacy Adam and Glenne leave behind, we – as adoring and appreciative fans – cannot measure or judge the pride they leave behind for their own families; merely in the absence of their future celluloid impact.  What I’ve learned from my family…parents, grandparents, extended family and chosen family, is that that’s the yardstick.

Right there.

The so called wake of your existence.

So, I’ll get up tomorrow and honor the example that real people set for me and set aside this morose nostalgia for people I’ve not met and live a life that will make my parents proud.

Quietly.

As quietly as grumpy, old Xtopher can, anyway.

Who Knew It Was Gonna Be One Of Those Days?

Fitfy: 49.18

Well, there’s a break in my weekly fitness accountability updates.

Perhaps I should just call this one Fatfy.

Six weeks off between posts.  I blame The Silver Fox, but only recreationally.  Overall, I’m in charge of me, but here’s the story…you may enjoy it.

It all started with The Fox taking one of his ever more present weekend trips away.  While also having cataloged the rest of his upcoming weekend getaways.

It might have been our Friday coffee before his family vacation in Bend, OR where he, his ex-wife and son from south of Portland and his Seattle son and his family all rendezvoused in this Oregon high desert brewer’s delight of a town.

Perhaps it was the weekend after, where he went north to Seattle to dog sit while his Seattle son’s family went to the in-laws for a visit.

Or the weekend when he popped down to the coast to work on the beach house renovation his ex-wife – the perfectly lovely Sallory – and he were embarking on.

Definitely not this past holiday weekend when he went down to yurt erection party at the beach house.

At one point during his laundry list of upcoming weekends away with his family and/or Sallory, I exclaimed, “You guys are retired! Why can’t you go away in the middle of the week?!?”  A thought that caught him a little off guard, I could tell he was briefly considering the worker bee ritual of maximizing one’s weekends that no longer strictly applied to him.  Ultimately, he set that aside to declare that he couldn’t do that for the yurt building party because the other folks helping still worked.

But he left me an 18 pack of Mac and Cheese from his pre-Bend provisioning Costco trip, so there’s that.  It’s great when your best friend knows you so well that a box of Kraft soothes all manner of sins.

Also, I’m quite simple.  Not basic, since my tastes tend to run either rather high brow or – as in this case, obvs – low brow in the extreme versus basic…which is just common.

I’m gonna have to think about the amount of justifying that my admission of love for the comfort of Kraft Mac and Cheese just required.  But, Myrtle likes it too!  Or the box, at any rate.

So why is my absence from blogging about – or even actually participating in – my fitness journey as I approach my 50th somehow The Fox’s fault…even if only for my amusement?  He’s one of those…motivated people.  It’s so disturbing to my natural state of procrastination.  On my Fridays off, he likes to get our coffee and chat about the week and then make for the gym, which is basically kitty corner from the coffee shop we hang out in.  Well, he hangs out there.  I am a squatter, since my caffeine tastes run to Nossa Familia down the block, but his coffee shop has better seating.  Still, the gym is right in the middle of the two, so he’s right on that we should go to the gym while we are in the area.

However, it’s not my style.  I’ve always been a post-work gym goer.  As I’ve gotten older, my energy level has…leveled off.  The result is that after ten or more hours at work, I’m just as likely to fall asleep on MAX as I am to have the energy to break out of my couch’s orbit once I get home.

Ergo, gym-going has been relegated to my days off.

While this yearlong journey is intended partially to help me find new habits that I can adopt to move forward with into the back third of my life, I have not fully explored too many things that felt like a sustainable routine.

For one of these weeks away of his, I decided that I would have coffee with The Fox and then go home, do some chores and then go to the gym afterward instead of the somewhat established routine of wake up, coffee, gym…it’s such a breakneck pace for what is essentially my Saturday morning.

Looking back, that was the last time I even planned to go to the gym over this six week hiatus.

I was busy.

Eighteen is a lot of boxes of Mac and Cheese.

Plus, I was working.

A lot.

A couple of six day weeks.

Averaging about 7.5 miles of speed-walking around PDX during those hectic workdays…it’s not like I wasn’t getting some exercise in.

So, I forgave myself my weakness and indulged my inclination to potato myself on my couch.

After a few weeks of seriously sedentary days off, I started thinking that it was getting to be bike riding weather in Portland.  Another week of not pulling that trigger and I began experiencing lower back pain.

A side effect of my sofa slouch.

Good news for the Needle Man.

Bad news for my future fit fifty year old self.

But!

You’ll be glad to know that as of last weekend, I have returned to my reluctant cyclist self.  My first ride was a shorty.  A ride that I hear others talk about as an achievement and roll my eyes – a simple 10 miler.

Uphill.

See?  That right there was an error in judgement on my part.

I was looking for a scenic ride on a sunny Portland day.  Thinking, “Hey, it’s just five miles away…” and completely forgetting that it was five miles uphill.  Crazy, windy, two-lane roads through a part of Portland’s semi-exclusive west-side hills.  It took me an hour to make the ride up.  the view I had on my beautiful city once I got there was worth it.

You can’t see the floaters in my field of vision in the pictures, but you can still see Mount St Helens and – what I think is – Mount Adams in the distance.

The ride home was – obviously – much easier.  But harrowing as I rode my brakes most of the way downhill into town.

In rush hour traffic on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend.

Yeah, this was a super well thought out excursion.

On the decidedly plus side:  endorphins.

On the decidedly not-plus side:  my ass feels like hamburger from my saddle rash.

But, I’m not going to let that stop me.

I.

Am.

Back.

 

Fitfy: 49.18

MAX Blog Challenge

Allow me to explanationize myself.

I spend a lot of time during my commute with no responsibilities concerning paying attention to anything.  Unlike you driving-type people.  I ride the MAX, which is the light rail train here in Portland, OR, for those of you from not around here.  In case it ever comes up in a pub trivia, it stands for Metropolitan Area Express.

See how clever us Oregonians are?

Ever moreso than our big sister city counterparts up north, not only because our light rail name is way cooler than their Link Light Rail.

<yawn>

But also because we had the good sense as a city back in the late 70s-early 80s to say “Yes, please” to the federal money offered to us for light rail.

Seattle – apparently – said, “Nah.  We cool.  Look at this major freeway running through downtown and our floating bridges!  Trains are old school.  Did we mention our freeway has a park over it?!?”

Alas.

Anyway, our MAX gets me to and from work on the daily and that leaves me with some downtime where I don’t have to worry about silly things like steering and not hitting other vehicles.

So, what do I do?

I watch a lot of cat videos.

And the Facebook.

And the Words With Friends.

And the Instagram.

Until my brain is pretty much dripping out both ears.

Ergo, the purpose of this little MAX Blog Challenge is to use my 35-ish minutes to toss off a few brief blog entries.  Such as this or this.  Just something to keep the old bean nimble.

It’s especially helpful when waking up my little gray matter for my early work mornings, I can tap out a quickie on the way to work and be quasi-alert upon my arrival.  Plus, my post numbers are way up.  Win!

On the Sunday morning that I started thinking about this self imposed challenge, I was flashing back to the leisurely Saturday morning the previous day.  I’d hit my favorite local coffee roastery for my weekly treat and instead of my usual Iced Hazelnut Latte, I was feeling like an Iced Mocha.

I was tres conflicted.

One of the coolest baristas in Portland noticed my uncertainty when I was asked if I wanted my usual and asked what was wrong.

Or if I wanted-slash-needed a quad shot.

I told her about the source of my conflict and she immediately offered to do a mocha with hazelnut syrup for sweetener instead of the normal vanilla.

“A Nutella Latte?” I ejaculated.

Sure, she responded, chuckling uncertainly.

How could I not?

I mean, really.

So there I am, 16 ounces of iced latte magic in hand, walking down NW 13th, happy as a pig in chocolate and hazelnut syrup.  I have a literal pep in my step.

Oh, yeah…I went with the quad shot, too.

Then it happened.  The Latte Song just happened.  Popped right into my head, it did.  The music it was set to was Rainbow Connection from The Muppet Movie.

And, it’s official.  I’m the biggest dork on the planet.

But, a well-caffeinated dork.

That was the story that I wanted to write for my first official MAX Blog Challenge.

But I couldn’t.

As soon as I started, my phone vibrated to let me know I had an incoming text.

T-Mobile.

I’d used all my high speed data for my billing cycle.  No biggie.  I usually have a couple of gigs in my data stash.  Then I saw it – the dreaded LTE in the upper left hand corner of my phone screen.

And it wasn’t going away.

Another text from T-Mobile, which usually follows telling me that I was going to switch to my stash.

I’m awash in relief.

“You have used all of the 3GB high speed data in your T-Mobile monthly data plan.  You will continue to experience slower speeds up to 128 kpbs until 05/05/2017…”

khan

kpbs…what type of actual BS tech is that anymore, anyway?  Could I also get a couple of tin cans and a string, please?

Being fairly easy going – shut up, everyone I know – I decided to just roll with it and keep typing along.  Then my mind started churning on the low speed data thing.  When I went to save or post this blog entry, it was gonna take a year and a half to update and complete.

Hard pass.

I could tough this out.

It was only…seventeen days.

Seven-fucking-teen days?!?!

Harder pass.

How was I going to make it?  I needed to get me to a T-Mobile to add a free range gig of data to get me through.

But how did this happen?  I never burn through both my 3 GB of high speed data and my stash.  Never.  It’s how I end up having a stash of data in the first place.

Rib.

He and his boyfriend had popped into town two weeks prior for a real fun weekend and had been talking – over our three bottles of wine before The Silver Fox and I split for an evening of Lauren Weedman fantasticness.  Well, it was supposed to be fantasticness, but not every slugger hits a home run every time at bat, right?

Whoa.  Sorry about that last paragraph.  It was very Weedman of me!

Nevertheless, during our full evening of fun packed into a 90 minute pre-funk conversation, they were mentioning the podcast they had listened to on their drive down from Seattle.

S-Town.

s-townIt sounded good.  Entertaining and thought provoking at the same time.  They had mentioned their podcast listening on previous trips down, so on the Sunday after their visit, I opened up my podcast app and started the seven episode series.

And finished it in four days.

Which apparently takes a lot of data.

Who friggin’ knew?

Who.

Friggin’.

Knew?

Ok, it was totally worth it.  But that’s a different blog.  Maybe.  If I remember.

Today I finally get to walk into a T-Mobile for that free range gig of data.

Which they no longer offer, because this is my life.  Gone are the days of a $9.99 gig fix for the data poor.

Great.  Now what?

As it happened, I needed to get me to a T-Mobile today for other reasons.  Namely, my phone contract is on a Jump! plan and on that plan, my traditional 24 month payment plan became an 18 month lease, where I could Jump! to a new phone pretty much whenever.

But I never did jump.

Oh, and did I mention that the 18 month lease ended with a balloon payment for the remaining balance of the phone cost?

Oh, yeah.

Who friggin’ knew?

So, I had also in this data crisis gotten a text saying that I needed to either get to T-Mobile to Jump! to a new phone or I was going to have a $164 balloon payment on my 4/28 bill, in addition to my normal $60-ish phone bill.

Balloon payment.

Does anything strike greater panic into the heart of a senior citizen?

I didn’t know what I was afraid of, it’s just some uncontrollable, throwback panic.

Quite beyond my control.

But, I like my phone fine.  One of the reasons I never Jump!ed in the first place.  Why not just ride it out?

Except.

My phone started giving me that “Storage Almost Full” crap and the “Cannot Take Photo” gas in the interim.

Well, I could use a little larger capacity on my phone…let’s see what the options are.

I head on down to my local T-Mobile.  Leaving myself not enough time to pull the trigger on anything before my 11:00 lunch date with the parental units.

Did I mention that I waited until the day the payment was due to hit my checking account?  No?  Because, I did.  I’m there learning that my free range gig was no longer available, but that there is a comparable unlimited plan available with unlimited data for $70, all taxes included.  Which would make my phone bill about $4 more per month compared to my current unlimited data plan where taxes are extra.

“Unlimited data”, <wink, wink> I say to the sale person, Kristina.  No…unlimited high speed data.  For real, she assures me.

It’s an attractive plan.

But, help me with my storage problem, I beg.  She shows me some external drives that…I stopped listening.  Another device, I don’t need.  I already have a brick of battery life that I think I’ve charged once since I bought it.

Lesson learned:  I don’t use the external tech add ons.

Basically, my options became to buy Cloud storage or buy a new phone.

This, of course, prompted a Grumpy Old Man rant about how I don’t even know what’s currently in my fucking cloud, nor do I know how to remove anything from said cloud.  I’m the victim here!  It’s all a big con.  Now I can’t take pictures.  I hope “they” are happy!

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

I back burner that decision while giving Kristina some whiplash and tell her that I’ve decided to go with the new data plan.  She parries with the information that she can’t set it up until I decide on paying off my old phone or getting a new one.

A few awkward seconds follow where we stare each other down.

The store’s phone rings.

And rings.

And rings some more.

I cock an eyebrow at her and she excuses herself.

like this woman.

My dad texts that they are leaving a bit late and will see me in an hour.  Great.  What Impulsive Xtopher didn’t need was enough time to complete a phone purchase.

When she gets off the phone, I tell her that I’ve decided to get the new phone, but to use the traditional 24 month payment plan versus the Jump! plan, since I didn’t.

Jump!

“The base 32 GB will be fine for you.  I mean, every time your phone updates, it will eat a little bit more of the storage because”…I’ve stopped listening.

“I’ll take the 128 GB”, I say, “Let’s see Apple update me out of that much storage!”

She tells me that I have to pay the $100 price difference up front, and I’m fine with that.  What I’m not fine with happens a few moments later when she realizes that she can’t stop the draft for this month’s payment.  What that boils down to isn’t a big deal, the $160 for the old phone will just appear as a bill credit next month.

It’s important to note that I’ve been short-handing the amount of the balloon payment on my old phone.  The actual amount of the buy off is $163.99.  It’s a shorthand that I now find myself regretting.

Because

She says, “Or, you could just wait and trade this phone in after the bill clears your account tonight” going on to elaborate – after my encouragement – that my trade in value would be <keyboard tapping> $160.

<Grumpy Old Xtopher to the stage, please>

“So, I lose $4 on the deal?” I manage to grumble and laugh at the same time.

Kristina the Sassy gives me a look that suggests that I’ve had a couple of weeks to complete this transaction that would have pre-empted the draft we are now discussing.

“Or you could just sell it yourself”, she tosses out.

Yeah, right.  My inner voice says.  I’m pretty sure I know what my face is saying to broadcast that thought.

Then my mouth says, “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

And I bought a phone.

I know that I don’t have enough time for her to set my new phone up for me, and this should bother me, since I’ve never set up a phone in my lift.

There’s people for that.

Smart people.

Smarter people than I, anyway.

But, here I am.  Backing up my old phone and restoring that data to my new phone while I type out a blog about how this insane adventure all began in the first place.

I can at least take solace in the fact that it only cost me $100.  Well, $100 plus the $4 my phone bill went up when I switched data plans from limited unlimited data to unlimited unlimited data…

On the upshot, I can reset my old phone to factory settings, get it unlocked and then sell it – with the Mophie battery pack that doesn’t fit my new phone – for an easy $250…so, really, I make out ok.

Because I’m a grumpy middle aged white guy and that’s how my shit rolls.

MAX Blog Challenge

Fitfy: 49.11

Nothing to see here, folks.

Move along.

Not only did I skip an entry last week – after my finest week of the year, too – but I compounded that by quite nearly doing nothing to report on during the week past.

I am a big believer in down weeks to let your body rest and also create a bit of a jolt to get you past a plateau when you resume exercise that next week, but let’s face it…I’ve hardly been doing anything consistent or impact-worthy that my body would need a down week.

Yet, here I am.

That said, I did manage to drag my old ass to the gym yesterday after my standing coffee date with The Silver Fox.  I had planned to lift and then do cardio, but his Foxiness is not back to lifting yet, and when we don’t both follow similar routines, it’s difficult to sync up our arrival/departure times.  Not that our routines are mirror images.  He prefers to do cardio and then lift, I am the opposite.  But time-wise, it marries up well.  If I lift and he doesn’t then I usually only get a half hour of cardio in before he’s ready to leave.

Which is odd, since I would normally prefer to avoid cardio altogether.  But, after a down year, my body needs cardio to burn that fat.

Anyhoo.

When we go for an hour of cardio, we generally try to grab side by side machines.  There is exactly one set of our preferred machines that fit this side by side mold, so it’s not always possible to make that happen, which was the case yesterday.

I walked upstairs while he grabbed a locker and our sweet spot was half occupied by a woman on the treadmill he would normally use.  Instead of conspicuously grabbing the machine right next to her when there were eight of the machines I like sitting empty in a row, I went to the opposite end of the row.  This had the added benefit of allowing me to watch The Masters while I huffed and wheezed instead of some new channel showing the batshit craziness that is haunting our White House these days.

Of course, my machine had some sort of hitch in its giddy-up and I could make out some weird click-snap-pop on the right side as it articulated, even over my headphones – Annie Lennox, in case you were wondering – but I was just glad it was the machine and not my body making the noise.

I turned up my music and huffed merrily along.

I looked casually over twenty minutes into my workout, longing for the silent companionship and smooth-working-sussurations of my normal Fox adjacent machine only to see that The Fox had somehow taken up residence.  It’s unlike me to move from one cardio machine to another during my hour, especially if it’s only from one broken down machine to the exact same model that is in full working order, and this was no exception.

Hey, I can commit, ok?  Just look at the embarrassment of romantic riches in the broken down boys I have dated in my life.

So I stayed put, texting The Fox, “You were a great white whale when I walked by that machine earlier” or some equally angry for no real reason other than to point out that I had at least looked to see if our machines were available when I came upstairs.  I then began text-complaining about how lackluster my workout felt.  Probably because of the wonky machine.  Also because a breakfast of iced latte just wasn’t giving me the energy to exercise with my normal faux enthusiasm.

Also, Annie Lennox isn’t an artist that inspires a lot of moving around…lesson learned.

Of course, this morning The Fox indicated that he hadn’t slept well last night, which usually means we are just grabbing coffee and not working out afterward.  Which is fine since I woke up with a soreness in my usual knee and an added return of an old injury in my left toe.

Gotta love waking up with random injuries.

Sometimes I miss the good old days when I would wake up with a disco related injury on a Saturday morning from the prior evening’s goings on.

Who knows?  Maybe I’m sleep dancing now.

But, not going to the gym after coffee gave me time to come home and pop out an exercise blog entry about – basically – not exercising.  Now, the big question…to post a retroactive entry about my best week of exercise year to date or just go to the gym and do something constructively physical to close out the week?

Facebook seemed to be suggesting that I day drink by posting this photo of me doing just that five years ago in Seattle with my one worthwhile ex-boyfriend…

But I’m really trying to balance my work-night drinking, and tomorrow is my Monday.

Ugh.  Big-boy decisions…guess you’ll have to check in next week to find out what I decided!  (Hint:  it’s probably Netflix on the couch!)

 

Fitfy: 49.11

Fitfy: 49.8

It’s time for a dry week.

A)  I don’t think I have had one this quarter/year, or at any rate, actually completed one in quite some time.

B)  Fitfy, I realized this morning as I was taking my weekly recycling progress pic to monitor my alcohol consumption, that this blog could also be called “What I’m Drinking” since it seems to be composed of equal parts sweat and booze.

Obviously, sweat and booze would be diametric opposites as far as how they contribute to the physical goal of this blog theme, and I have had a week where I pretty much skipped the gym…so this only seems fair.  Also, beneficial.

That said, here’s the recycling pic from week 49.7.

Not pictured: a growler of beer.  No, wait..two.  But they were shared.  Although, I admit to being the better lubricated of my growler companion (The Silver Fox) and I.

Now, witness the results from this past week – excluding the Monday Night Supper Club wine from last night, since my week seems to be running Sat-Fri.  I know!  It used to be a Friday-Thursday thing.  I’m a procrastinator.  Now, look…I’m publishing Sunday.  Where will it all end?  Also, yes…I know that last night was Saturday, not Monday, but Monday Night Supper Club has moved and I don’t have a set acronym-slash-name for the new night.  Diezel and I are working on it.  

I’ll take two bottles of wine and not quite a six pack as a week over week improvement.  Also, I was too busy/tired to excel at drinking last week.

Ok, enough of the negative – see also:  therapeutic – from last week.  Let’s get on to the exercise portion of this accountability blog.

My work-week was chaotic, to be sure.  But, in all that work mayhem, I still managed to clock 32.7 miles of schlep-walking while at the airport.  I call it schlep-walking since I’m generally pushing a cart or rack of something as I make my frenzied way around PDX between my five locations there.

BTW, for all of you curious about my sleep walking, I can report no further incidents.  But four nights in a row was plenty for this bout.  My sleep walking PR, as best I can attest.

Anyway, schlep-walking gets me a pretty good sweat and heart rate, especially since PDX has got to be the best heated airport ever.  But it’s nothing compared to what I accomplished at the gym this week with my cardio.  I made friends again with my favorite machine, I’ve been steering clear of it while my knee healed – and I’m still a little wary, but I just couldn’t resist.  It’s as close to the ballistic feeling I got from my running workouts, and I need that.  Not just physically, but mentally, too.  That pounding rhythm I experience in running just clears my mind.  Mental shit just bounces off of me when I run, and well, this machine closely emulates that same effect.

There’s barely any time to ogle cute guys working out near me when I use this machine, it focuses me on the goals so much more than the other cardio machines.

But don’t take my word for it.img_1887

800 calories in just under an hour?  Yes, please.  That knocks a bottle-plus out of my recycling bin!

Don’t judge that 2-setting.  I prefer the longer stride – obviously, with these ostrich legs I’ve been given – to the stair stepping motion of the higher 5-setting, but I do mix it up during my workout.  I was so motivated and proud of that 800 calorie burn that I went back the next day for an “or die trying” repeat.

Took a few seconds longer to accomplish, but I pulled it off.  I admit, I was a little distracted by a guy on to my right in the row ahead of me.  But it wasn’t just that he was a HGN (Hot Gay Nerd) but his workout was a bit odd and I was trying to figure out his rhythm.

Outside of those two Festivus-unworthy visits, my week at the gym was pretty lackluster.  I told ya, I was busy at work!  Sheesh.  Let it go.

I did feel the physical and mental changes missing the gym created in me over the course of the week.  To keep them slightly at bay, I did a couple of dumbbell mini workouts at home, just for the little endorphin push.  They even included some ab work, which I desperately need.  I’ve been avoiding my abs as my back pain hasn’t completely subsided and I know I cheat with my back when my abs fatigue.

But, I think my back pain has crossed a line.  Now, instead of my back pain being exacerbated by the cheating I do when working out, I think the pain is equally – if not wholly – due to the overall weakness of my core.  It’s a phys ed catch-22.  My Needle Man has been encouraging strengthening my core, so this week I caved.

Back still hurts.

The last accountability factor from last week is food.  It’s so good!  Why, why must it be so good?  While being busy and drinking less might make one suspect that I ate more emotionally, I have to say…that wasn’t the case.  Sure, I failed to take lunch to work with me last week, but what I ate was slightly better than basic burgers and ‘za.  There’s that, I suppose.  But also, I just ate…less.  Eating more is essentially where that emotional eating takes place.  It’s never more salad.  Maybe salad dressing shots, but not more veggies.  It’s always – and I hate using emotionally charged words like that – but it is always chips and popcorn and crap like that.  Last week, on my one emotional eating evening, I managed to pair my wine with hummus and carrots instead of chips.

So.

There’s.

That.

Less booze, better exercise, less and better food.  I’ll call 49.8 a win.  Now, it’s time to lather, rinse and repeat that bitch.

Off to the gym before dinner at #DanweiCanting with the parentals.

Fitfy: 49.8