Showing posts with label YMCA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label YMCA. Show all posts
Thursday
About Muscle Marys
Taking a cue from the heroine of my new novel, I decided to lift some free weights today instead of cardio as I always do at the gym, albeit her gym amounted to a pair of pitted dumbbells supplied by her 'Maestro' in a 1950's testosterone soaked dive at a Mexican bullring and my Y is 'new millennium' sleek and shiny.
Despite running an hour three times weekly on the elliptical, I was astonished by how weak my muscles felt. I really struggled to do what had been so easy a year ago. Tomorrow I'll be in pain. But one thing I did notice as I looked around the gym--usually I have my head stuck in my kindle on the elliptical catching up with query-reading. My middle-aged body is in damned good nick after I discounted the young and not so young Muscle Mary's walking round with their tattooed biceps and a third of the 30 and 40 somethings.
Sunday
Chopping Wood and return of Hornet
A tree feel near our house last week as a result of the violent storms we've been having of late. I was up in the office and heard it crash on the ground.
So, when a tree falls in the forest--yes, it can be heard, Virginia.
Spent yesterday and today cutting it and chopping it into pieces for firewood. It felt really good to do that kind of exercise as opposed to working my ass off on an elliptical at the Y.
On the subject of the Y, it's looking brilliant as a result of its multi-million dollar facelift. My old nemesis, the Hornet, continues to ride rough shod and hog the latest equipment. She's working out too hard now and is looking like one of Tom Wolfe's Social X-Rays. Still as rude as ever. As I just finished a 50 min session on fat burner mode (yes, 50 mins) on my (and her) favorite elliptical, she approached as I was wiping down the machine. She got on, opened her magazine without even a thank you and then said "The floor has a lot of your sweat on it, too." She peered down at it bug-eyed.
I looked at it, looked at her, looked at it again. "Keep your voice down," I said. "The others'll be jealous if they find out." And off I walked to the hoots of laughter of a lady nearby.
So, when a tree falls in the forest--yes, it can be heard, Virginia.
Spent yesterday and today cutting it and chopping it into pieces for firewood. It felt really good to do that kind of exercise as opposed to working my ass off on an elliptical at the Y.
On the subject of the Y, it's looking brilliant as a result of its multi-million dollar facelift. My old nemesis, the Hornet, continues to ride rough shod and hog the latest equipment. She's working out too hard now and is looking like one of Tom Wolfe's Social X-Rays. Still as rude as ever. As I just finished a 50 min session on fat burner mode (yes, 50 mins) on my (and her) favorite elliptical, she approached as I was wiping down the machine. She got on, opened her magazine without even a thank you and then said "The floor has a lot of your sweat on it, too." She peered down at it bug-eyed.
I looked at it, looked at her, looked at it again. "Keep your voice down," I said. "The others'll be jealous if they find out." And off I walked to the hoots of laughter of a lady nearby.
Monday
Is there really a thing called women's fiction
So I took the plunge and decided to open the covers of my first 'women's fiction' novel. It's My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult.
I started reading it while on the elliptical at the 'Y'--the true acid test of a good book, because if it doesn't make the time fly, out it goes.
Astonishingly, my first fifty minute workout went by really quickly. I'd even done the five minute cool-down without realizing it--and I was stepping away and no 'burned calories' were being recorded because the damned machine had switched off.
Well and good.
As I delved deeper, I began to anticipate what was going to happen--not so good. But I have to say her writing is excellent. She can sure turn a phrase and some of her similies and metaphors are really good--if a bit abundant, something I was accused of by an editor on one occasion. And a few are a stretch, but every writer can't hit a perfect score on that count.
I find her woman characters are fantastically drawn, but am less convinced by the lead male character, Cameron, and Sara's husband. Their sensibilities and thoughts are too much what a woman would want them to be and didn't ring real for me.
However, these are minor quibbles and I will definitely read another Picoult novel.
Men looking for an ice breaker at the gym or wherever might consider carrying about one of her novels. It's extraordinary the number of women who've approached me to ask how I'm enjoying the book and then begin chatting as if I'm their best friend, even women who've ignored me at the gym for the past three years.
Yes Virginia, there really is a thing called women's fiction.
I started reading it while on the elliptical at the 'Y'--the true acid test of a good book, because if it doesn't make the time fly, out it goes.
Astonishingly, my first fifty minute workout went by really quickly. I'd even done the five minute cool-down without realizing it--and I was stepping away and no 'burned calories' were being recorded because the damned machine had switched off.
Well and good.
As I delved deeper, I began to anticipate what was going to happen--not so good. But I have to say her writing is excellent. She can sure turn a phrase and some of her similies and metaphors are really good--if a bit abundant, something I was accused of by an editor on one occasion. And a few are a stretch, but every writer can't hit a perfect score on that count.
I find her woman characters are fantastically drawn, but am less convinced by the lead male character, Cameron, and Sara's husband. Their sensibilities and thoughts are too much what a woman would want them to be and didn't ring real for me.
However, these are minor quibbles and I will definitely read another Picoult novel.
Men looking for an ice breaker at the gym or wherever might consider carrying about one of her novels. It's extraordinary the number of women who've approached me to ask how I'm enjoying the book and then begin chatting as if I'm their best friend, even women who've ignored me at the gym for the past three years.
Yes Virginia, there really is a thing called women's fiction.
Monday at the Y
Pennsylvania is horrid when its muggy. I don't think I'll ever get used to this no matter how long I live here. Years ago, I thought high summer in London was bad but it was a breeze in comparison.
And this morning at the Y, they'd decided to conserve energy by keeping the air-con off and the windows can't be opened. All around the gym people were moving from station to station with a sheen on their skins and sweat beads on their foreheads--some were even sweating within minutes of beginning their routines. Even Hornet was having breathing problems and seemed too tired to bother to straighten her head band which was rakishly lopsided and the scrupulously applied mascara was running in ghoulish fashion. (She's since sold her bright yellow Hummer undoubtedly on account of the gas usage--to my surprise, she's eaten the whole hog and gone 'Prius.')
I was actually nervous some of the older dears might faint, or worse, expire. There's a policy at the Y that foul language will NOT be tolerated. Much subversion occurred today...even from the muttering snippets I heard from the old dearies.
And this morning at the Y, they'd decided to conserve energy by keeping the air-con off and the windows can't be opened. All around the gym people were moving from station to station with a sheen on their skins and sweat beads on their foreheads--some were even sweating within minutes of beginning their routines. Even Hornet was having breathing problems and seemed too tired to bother to straighten her head band which was rakishly lopsided and the scrupulously applied mascara was running in ghoulish fashion. (She's since sold her bright yellow Hummer undoubtedly on account of the gas usage--to my surprise, she's eaten the whole hog and gone 'Prius.')
I was actually nervous some of the older dears might faint, or worse, expire. There's a policy at the Y that foul language will NOT be tolerated. Much subversion occurred today...even from the muttering snippets I heard from the old dearies.
Wednesday
Busy, busy...
I'm currently very busy with the final chapters of the new novel--was going to post this yesterday and then realized it was April Fool's Day--and it's coming in at about 83,000 words. My writer's group have reviewed most of it and have given excellent feedback. Now comes another edit.
Having difficulty coming up with a title as its set in London and NYC--working title is now Big Smoke, Big Apple:A Transatlantic Tale
I want to get it to my agent by the third week of April so he and members of his team can read it and, hopefully, they'll like it as is and it'll go on submission.
Also, working hard at the gym--summer's round the corner after all.
My sister Siobhan and her hubby and kids--well David is not a kid any longer since he's gone off to university--are coming out for a visit in July so that'll be fun. (Do wish David had have gone to the LSE though--I was so excited when he got accepted to do accountancy, which i think sounds boring but then he thinks the same about law--'cos I'd have a place to stay when I visit London.
Having difficulty coming up with a title as its set in London and NYC--working title is now Big Smoke, Big Apple:A Transatlantic Tale
I want to get it to my agent by the third week of April so he and members of his team can read it and, hopefully, they'll like it as is and it'll go on submission.
Also, working hard at the gym--summer's round the corner after all.
My sister Siobhan and her hubby and kids--well David is not a kid any longer since he's gone off to university--are coming out for a visit in July so that'll be fun. (Do wish David had have gone to the LSE though--I was so excited when he got accepted to do accountancy, which i think sounds boring but then he thinks the same about law--'cos I'd have a place to stay when I visit London.
Monday
Human quirks
It's amazing how anticipation and excitement affects us humans, how it causes a natural high that makes us act out of character sometimes.
On Saturday morning, someone whom I've seen at the gym for nearly two years but whom I've never spoken to approached as I was completing my first set of arm curls.
He's a man in his early sixties and is a friend of another guy who's Irish-American who once told me he's conservative and doesn't care for Hillary Clinton, couldn't imagine America being led by a woman. I'd imagine this chap feels the same way. We've passed each other on the way to the various pieces of equipment but never spoken or acknowledged one another. He's always come across as unfriendly, actually.
"You're Irish, aren't you?" he said, his smile as broad as Nellie's dresser. (an Irish saying.)
I had to clamp my mouth shut so as to stop my jaw from slamming into the floor. "Er...yes," I said after I finished the last rep of my set. "The genuine article." I tossed him a grin.
"My wife and I are going to Ireland."
"Really. That's very nice. When?"
"Tonight...at six." He smiled like a schoolboy who'd been praised for good marks.
"Out of Newark?" I said.
"Nah. Philly."
"Which part?"
"County Meath."
"I'm from the North. That's in the republic...but it's not far. Everything in Ireland isn't far from anywhere else."
He laughed. "Yeah, I'm Irish American and my relatives live in Meath."
"Well, have a good time."
"Thanks. Will do."
"Have a nice time."
I picked up the handles to start another set but stopped to watch the man walk away. He knew I was Irish yet we hadn't even traded names. This isn't the first time I've seen this sort of behavior. He was buzzing. I think the anticipation of something pleasurable makes normally reticent people drop their guard or shyness and approach others to share their news. It's almost a compulsion--a snap decision by the brain to act when an opportunity presents. In this case, the nexus was my Irishness and his trip to Ireland to see his relatives. Wonderful. It'll be most interesting to see if he speaks on his return.
On Saturday morning, someone whom I've seen at the gym for nearly two years but whom I've never spoken to approached as I was completing my first set of arm curls.
He's a man in his early sixties and is a friend of another guy who's Irish-American who once told me he's conservative and doesn't care for Hillary Clinton, couldn't imagine America being led by a woman. I'd imagine this chap feels the same way. We've passed each other on the way to the various pieces of equipment but never spoken or acknowledged one another. He's always come across as unfriendly, actually.
"You're Irish, aren't you?" he said, his smile as broad as Nellie's dresser. (an Irish saying.)
I had to clamp my mouth shut so as to stop my jaw from slamming into the floor. "Er...yes," I said after I finished the last rep of my set. "The genuine article." I tossed him a grin.
"My wife and I are going to Ireland."
"Really. That's very nice. When?"
"Tonight...at six." He smiled like a schoolboy who'd been praised for good marks.
"Out of Newark?" I said.
"Nah. Philly."
"Which part?"
"County Meath."
"I'm from the North. That's in the republic...but it's not far. Everything in Ireland isn't far from anywhere else."
He laughed. "Yeah, I'm Irish American and my relatives live in Meath."
"Well, have a good time."
"Thanks. Will do."
"Have a nice time."
I picked up the handles to start another set but stopped to watch the man walk away. He knew I was Irish yet we hadn't even traded names. This isn't the first time I've seen this sort of behavior. He was buzzing. I think the anticipation of something pleasurable makes normally reticent people drop their guard or shyness and approach others to share their news. It's almost a compulsion--a snap decision by the brain to act when an opportunity presents. In this case, the nexus was my Irishness and his trip to Ireland to see his relatives. Wonderful. It'll be most interesting to see if he speaks on his return.
Tuesday
Crazy Woman singing
I had the afternoon off today and decided to go the gym in the p.m. rather than early morning as is usual. We've had a lot of snow so I was anxious to get in a hard workout and cheer my spirits. To my surprise all the exercise machines were occupied.
As I walked about checking the sign-up sheets (which we have to complete prior to mounting the machine) to see which one would become free first, I came upon one which was unsigned which is not a problem. I looked up at the lady pumping away on the pedals and said, "Hi there. Excuse me but I was just wondering how long you've got to go on your program?"
She removed her earphones and said, "As long as it takes." She smiled, killed it quickly.
"No problem. I'm not asking you to leave or anything, it's just I wondered how much of the half-hour schedule you've got to go. If it's not long I'll just put my name down on the sheet."
"Listen asshole, I'm on till I'm done. Satisfied?"
I was stunned and enraged. I just stood looking at her as she pumped and made a swatting gesture as if I were an annoying insect.
A plump, red-faced woman with frizzy hair exercising casually on a nearby exercise bicycle was bug-eyed with shock. After locking her pale eyes in my gaze, she raised her shoulders to commiserate.
Unwilling to accept the status of insect, I said, "Hey, technically I can ask you to get off because you're supposed to sign the sheet. But I'm not doing that."
Again the bright yellow earphones were being slowly lowered to caress her neck as I spoke.
"Screw the rules," she said. "I don't bother with sign-up sheets."
"I see. I'll pass that nugget on." I went off to the management staff and asked if they'd amended the rules during my absence, added that I wasn't asking the woman to leave--pointed toward the machine as I talked--but I just wanted to know how much time she had on the machine because I'd traveled a bit to get here. As I was doing so, I heard high-pitched shrieks, looked in the direction of the elliptical, and when our eyes connected heard, "You're a fucking asshole."
"Wow," the manager said to me.
"Don't do anything," I said. "Maybe just tell her to sighn the sheet like everyone else so we know what's free," I said.
The only machine free--though only for ten minutes-was beside her. I hopped on and began my exercise regime, still so riled by this woman I couldn't concentrate properly and keyed in an 'uphill' cycle rather than my usual 'weight-loss.' I began to read my book (no irony intended but entitled "Me talk pretty one day).
As I pedaled, the woman began to sing aloud. I think she figured it would annoy my reading enjoyment. Her pitch grew louder and louder until people in the gym began staring at her. She didn't care. Louder and louder she got until the gym manager came up. "Are you okay up there?" she shouted.
She removed her earphones. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yea. Why wouldn't I be? Just singing while I do a nice workout. Tra la la la la."
The manager looked up at her speechless as the woman recited again, "Tra la la la la lala lala.
"Well, try to keep it down a little." She paused. "And try to remember we're a family gym here. We like people to get along and we don't like that sort of language.
"Tra lala lala."
I was beginning to wonder if this woman was mad and might have a gun in her pocketbook and wait for me to leave the gym. Just as I was wondering if I should vacate the machine, a middle-aged man drew up very alpha-male style to the front of my elliptical, riveted on the sheet attached to my machine, and glowered at my upper chest as he walked away. I knew the glower. It's the unspoken signal that one's time is up and it's now their turn. As soon as I got off and wiped down the machine, he returned and climbed aboard. The woman stopped singing.
I decided to lift some weights, my every movement watched fiercely by Crazy Woman as I did so, though every time I turned in her direction she lowered her head. ten minutes later she got off and moved straight to the thigh machine without wiping down the sweaty elliptical. No consideration for her fellow gym bunnies. Takes all kinds to make a world, I suppose.
As I walked about checking the sign-up sheets (which we have to complete prior to mounting the machine) to see which one would become free first, I came upon one which was unsigned which is not a problem. I looked up at the lady pumping away on the pedals and said, "Hi there. Excuse me but I was just wondering how long you've got to go on your program?"
She removed her earphones and said, "As long as it takes." She smiled, killed it quickly.
"No problem. I'm not asking you to leave or anything, it's just I wondered how much of the half-hour schedule you've got to go. If it's not long I'll just put my name down on the sheet."
"Listen asshole, I'm on till I'm done. Satisfied?"
I was stunned and enraged. I just stood looking at her as she pumped and made a swatting gesture as if I were an annoying insect.
A plump, red-faced woman with frizzy hair exercising casually on a nearby exercise bicycle was bug-eyed with shock. After locking her pale eyes in my gaze, she raised her shoulders to commiserate.
Unwilling to accept the status of insect, I said, "Hey, technically I can ask you to get off because you're supposed to sign the sheet. But I'm not doing that."
Again the bright yellow earphones were being slowly lowered to caress her neck as I spoke.
"Screw the rules," she said. "I don't bother with sign-up sheets."
"I see. I'll pass that nugget on." I went off to the management staff and asked if they'd amended the rules during my absence, added that I wasn't asking the woman to leave--pointed toward the machine as I talked--but I just wanted to know how much time she had on the machine because I'd traveled a bit to get here. As I was doing so, I heard high-pitched shrieks, looked in the direction of the elliptical, and when our eyes connected heard, "You're a fucking asshole."
"Wow," the manager said to me.
"Don't do anything," I said. "Maybe just tell her to sighn the sheet like everyone else so we know what's free," I said.
The only machine free--though only for ten minutes-was beside her. I hopped on and began my exercise regime, still so riled by this woman I couldn't concentrate properly and keyed in an 'uphill' cycle rather than my usual 'weight-loss.' I began to read my book (no irony intended but entitled "Me talk pretty one day).
As I pedaled, the woman began to sing aloud. I think she figured it would annoy my reading enjoyment. Her pitch grew louder and louder until people in the gym began staring at her. She didn't care. Louder and louder she got until the gym manager came up. "Are you okay up there?" she shouted.
She removed her earphones. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yea. Why wouldn't I be? Just singing while I do a nice workout. Tra la la la la."
The manager looked up at her speechless as the woman recited again, "Tra la la la la lala lala.
"Well, try to keep it down a little." She paused. "And try to remember we're a family gym here. We like people to get along and we don't like that sort of language.
"Tra lala lala."
I was beginning to wonder if this woman was mad and might have a gun in her pocketbook and wait for me to leave the gym. Just as I was wondering if I should vacate the machine, a middle-aged man drew up very alpha-male style to the front of my elliptical, riveted on the sheet attached to my machine, and glowered at my upper chest as he walked away. I knew the glower. It's the unspoken signal that one's time is up and it's now their turn. As soon as I got off and wiped down the machine, he returned and climbed aboard. The woman stopped singing.
I decided to lift some weights, my every movement watched fiercely by Crazy Woman as I did so, though every time I turned in her direction she lowered her head. ten minutes later she got off and moved straight to the thigh machine without wiping down the sweaty elliptical. No consideration for her fellow gym bunnies. Takes all kinds to make a world, I suppose.
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