Everybody’s haulin’ for the weekend
After kind of an insane week at work, this weekend cannot arrive quickly enough. Good thing I’ve got great stuff on the agenda. First, a Dave Matthews Band concert tonight. I don’t care if you hate DMB. I loooooooooooove them, and their “Two Step” has gotten me through many a long run.
Then tomorrow, a morning workout to remind my tush that it’s not SUPPOSED to be cemented to a chair all day long.
Artist's rendering
Followed by my first-ever visit to Atlantic City to celebrate the 40th birthday of Deanna, one of the cool chicks who reads this blog. I’m going to bring my sneakers, and by God, I will use them. Maybe.
C'mon slots. Mama needs a new pair of...
Some interesting bits to tide you over until I’m back:
You’ll remember that I spotted Chilean miner Edison Pena during his ING New York City Marathon run last weekend. But I had no idea who the guys running alongside him were. Thanks, The New York Times, for filling me in.(And thanks to Melissa for sending me the story!)
Whatever you’re up to this weekend, make sure that your fitness exploits can’t easily be mistaken for a suicide attempt. Please?
Happy weekend, everyone!
Spinning Tunes
If the time change is making you groggy, this playlist may be the kick you need to get you out the door. My classes this week did a lot of sore-buns, in-the-saddle riding to these songs. Good work, everyone! It should be noted that The Fiancé went to France in the spring and downloaded the Edward Maya tune right after he got back—it was on the radio 24/7 there. Now that Maya’s got a hit in the U.S., as well, TF has deemed himself a talented arbiter of pop hits. I’ll let you know what he comes up with next.
- Take My Picture — Filter (6:03)
- Firework — Katy Perry (3:47)
- Take It Off — Ke$ha (3:35)
- Hot Tottie — Usher (feat. Jay-Z) (4:59)
- Love and Wonder — DJ Earworm (5:50)
- Human — The Killers (4:05)
- This Is My Life — Edward Maya (3:49)
- Paper Planes — M.I.A. (3:23)
- Last Nite — The Strokes (3:13)
- Hallelujah — Justin Timberlake (feat. Charlie Sexton) (4:15)
Does this mean every instructor is going to start screaming at me?
The American College of Sports Medicine recently released its annual forecast of workout trends: Boot camps are big, Pilates is passé. Read more here.
In the piece, a Pilates studio owner says that money is a huge factor.
“Pilates is perceived as more expensive than bootcamp,” Lara Hudson, owner of the Mercury Fitness Pilates studio in San Francisco, California, told Reuters. “In this tough economy people look for less expensive workouts.”
Do you think she’s right? How much does cost affect your workout routine?
Soup S.O.S.
When the days get short and your hunger turns you into something out of a horror movie…
Weight Watchers‘ zero-Point soup is the way to go. I was super lazy and dumped a bunch of veggies in the slow cooker Monday night, then let it simmer while I slept. The morning brought yummy veggie goodness. I added tofu and had it for lunch.
Marty, a truly inspiring Weight Watchers leader in Massachusetts, once described the soup this way: “If you get off track, this stuff will pull you back on, fast.” And if you hate any part of it, substitute! Ditch the cabbage; try it with bean sprouts. Add proteins (which adds Points, but it’s good Points!). Make it without the tomatoes. Play around with it.
And if you try another awesome variation, let me know!
Garden Vegetable Soup
2/3 cup sliced carrot
1/2 cup diced onion
2 garlic cloves, minced
3 cups fat-free broth (beef, chicken or vegetable)
1-1/2 cups diced green cabbage
1/2 cup green beans
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1/2 teaspoon dried basil
1/4 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup diced zucchini
1. In large saucepan sprayed with nonstick cooking spray, saute the carrot, onion and garlic over low heat until softened, about 5 minutes.
2. Add broth, cabbage, beans, tomato paste, basil, oregano and salt; bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer, covered, about 15 minutes or until beans are tender.
3. Stir in zucchini and heat 3-4 minutes. Serve hot. Makes four 1-cup servings.
Per Serving: 42 calories; 0 g fat; 2 g fiber. If you’re counting, it’s zero Points.
Marathon Monday
Running a marathon can be an awesome, life-affirming experience.
Watching one is nearly as good.
For the past few years, Melissa — one of the cool chicks who reads this blog — and I have cheered ING New York City Marathon runners at mile 21 in the Bronx. We usually stand at a spot right before the course rounds a corner and spits the runners out toward the Madison Avenue Bridge.
We usually arrive around 1:30 p.m., when those who’ll finish in 4:20 or longer are cruising by. Invariably, some runners are still going strong and smiling as they pass. Some are grimacing and limping. The longer we’re out there, the slower the pace. By the time we leave around 4 p.m., most marathoners are walking. Some of them are leaning on friends or volunteers or each other. They’ve got five miles and change to go, and it’s getting dark and cold.
But they keep on going. And that is a fantastic thing to see.
Now before I get all Chariots of Fire on you, let’s recap some other cool ING New York Marathon weekend stuff:
Friday fiver: I took part in the NYRR 5, a five-miler held in Central Park on Friday at 8 a.m. I was surprised at how many marathoners did the race, too; if I have to cover 26.2 miles on a Sunday, you’d better believe my feet will do as little as possible in the days before. At the finish line, I saw Jared Fogle, of Subway fame, who was there to promote his own run in the marathon. In my post-run euphoria, I yelled, “Jared, you’re awesome!” He responded in kind. Say what you will, but anyone who runs and loves Subway is fine by me.
Faces in the crowd: Meliss dubbed me a “celebrity runner spotter” because I picked out buzzed-about marathoners, such as the aforementioned Jared (who was an easy get, as he was running surrounded by four or five dudes with SUBWAY on their shirts), and Today hosts Meredith Viera (who looked genuinely excited when we cheered her name) and Al Roker (who was in pretty rough shape when he passed us). And let us not forget Chilean miner Edison Pena, who was going strong despite knee issues when he ran past. All of them wound up finishing the race.
Gazelles: Before I headed up to the Bronx, I watched the elite runners do their thing on NBC. Edna Kiplicat took first place for the women, and Gebre Gebremariam broke the tape for the men. I tried to explain to The Fiancé why watching them do their thing moves me in a way that watching other pro athletes does not. “I don’t know how tough it is to play baseball or football, not really. But I know how hard it is to run, no matter who you are, and they make it look effortless and beautiful.”
Double duty: This chick, a documentary filmmaker, strapped a camera to her hat and filmed the entire race. WARNING: If you get motion sick easily, you may not want to watch.
Next year, in Staten Island…: So all of this ING New York Marathon fever has gotten to me, because I’m making plans to do it myself in 2011. If I complete four more New York Road Runners races before the end of the year, I’m guaranteed entry through their 9+1 program. (Very cool; tri-state area runners, check it out.) And yes, I’m still likely going to have problems with my feet next year. And yes, the last time I did New York I walk-ran the last few miles because of a tight IT band. But if the insanely inspiring athletes I saw in wheelchairs, on prosthetics, without sight and/or hearing can make the commitment, so can I.
Doesn’t hurt, of course, that Tiffany is now offering a line of ING New York Marathon commemorative items. You hear that, TF?
It doesn’t have to suck, people
Yeah, not so much.
On Tuesday, I tried out a new-to-me yoga studio in the Flatiron Distrcit of Manhattan. The place I’d been practicing, Laughing Lotus, was great. But my month-long card expired there, and I got a deal on a month of unlimited classes at this new joint, so I switched.
The minute I walked in, I wasn’t sure I liked the vibe of the place. It felt kind of corporate. Everyone was speaking in hushed tones. And a quick glance at the ladies clustered in the corner and sipping tea as they waited for the 7:15 vinyasa class gave me pause; they were near-carbon copies of each other, right down to their lean torsos, bored expressions, white tank tops and black Lululemon pants. I seriously thought there might have been a dress-code notice I’d missed. I only relaxed a little bit when some equally toned and joyless-looking individuals showed up. At least their shirts were different colors.
I know you’re supposed to leave all of your preconceived notions outside the door, but dude, these chicks freaked me out a little. As the class progressed, it became clear that many of them had quite lovely yoga practices. They could bend themselves into pretty little pretzels, seemingly with ease. But no one seemed excited about it.
The teacher was very good. The poses were challenging. I don’t know what was up; I don’t pretend to know what everyone else in the class was thinking or feeling, but it just didn’t seem like my classmates were having any kind of fun whatsoever. The only moment of levity I witnessed took place when I completely fell out of a side plank after grabbing my right big toe with my right hand and trying to extend both toward the ceiling. I landed on my mat and lamely said, “Well, that went well.” The chick to my left smiled.
It was a lot like the gym I worked out at in graduate school, a gorgeous facility populated by incredibly thin, incredibly fit women (and men). The women especially worked out with an intensity that was a little scary. I took a class at that gym a few weeks ago; the women were still thin, their faces still dead-set on wringing every last calorie out of their movements.
I much prefer the feel of places like Laughing Lotus, Feminine Fitness, and the New York Sports Club I teach at in Butler. There, you find people of all different body types and sizes who are trying to make something positive happen in their lives. They have varying degrees of success, but they show up and they try, and they usually have a good time.
I witnessed the same thing yesterday, when I volunteered at the New York City Marathon expo. My job was to greet people at the entrance and point them in the right direction. I talked with new runners and old runners, thin runners and fat runners, tall runners and short runners and in-between runners. Without fail, they were excited to be there and to be part of something so huge. I wished them a good run on Sunday, and they thanked me with huge grins — even the people who said they were freaked beyond belief.
I’ll keep going back to the new yoga place, at least for the month. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I’m not asking for much, but don’t you think there’s something to be said for enthusiasm?
After all, is there anyone who WON’T be pulling for Chilean miner Edison Pena at this Sunday’s marathon?
Vaya!
Mama Yoga
I’ve had babies on the brain lately. Not because people who ask about my wedding plans find it perfectly polite to segue into a conversation about my reproductive viability, even though many do. But a couple of really important ladies in my life recently decided it’s time for them to be mommies, so I’ve found myself having conversations about birth plans and fertility drugs and the pros and cons of being pregnant in summer vs. winter, and vice versa. It’s surreal. It’s awesome.
It’s not for me, not just yet.
However, I just may be swayed — especially when people like my friend, Marin, make it look both so chic and fulfilling. (How many things can you say that about?) I’m not the only one who thinks so; when a Chicago television station produced a piece about mom-and-baby yoga, Marin and her three-month-old daughter, Calli, were the natural stars. Marin is the hot mama in the white top sitting cross-legged while she talks with the reporter. Check out how zen Calli is! And then there are always the inspirational ladies at Run Like a Mother, some of whom finish — and dominate! — races just weeks before their due dates.
I will say this: When my time to procreate arrives, I will most certainly make myself a shirt like the one I saw a runner wear several years ago. It stuck with me, mainly because she was in front of me pretty much the whole course. The shirt’s back read: “Eight months pregnant and STILL kicking your ass.”
Out in the Haulosphere
I don’t know how many of you saw Marie Claire’s pretty horrible riff on Mike & Molly, the new CBS sitcom about two plus-size Overeaters Anonymous members in love. After Maura Kelly blogged about it last week for the magazine, the response was kind of insane. Check out “Should ‘Fatties’ Get a Room?” (scroll down to get to the post); you’ll also be able to read Kelly’s explanation/apology and the thousands of comments—both for and against—that followed.
You guys know that Haul Buns is all about your attitude and your willingness to work hard, and I could care less about your pants size or your bikini-readiness. But even the most upbeat of us gets a little body-conscious every now and then. Instead of going on and on about how stupid, bigoted, and incredibly harmful I think the Marie Claire piece is, I’ll instead highlight the thoughts of two awesome bloggers who occasionally swing by this site.
First, for those of you who missed Maggie’s comment on my wedding gown travails, check out her classy F-off to a Texas bridal boutique. (And when you have a minute, poke around both her wedding blog, Eat, Drink, Marry, and her all-kinds-of-awesome site, Freckled Citizen.) Maggie and I have been friends since college, and the only thing that keeps me from being insanely jealous of her talent, beauty, and wit is her kind heart and sweet self. (Plus, there’s a good chance she has some photos of me that I’d rather not see on the Interwebs.)
Then head over to Such a Pretty Face, where Carla Sosenko has a fantastic as-told-to piece about plus-size dating in this day and age. Carla regularly blogs and tweets about dating and body image, among other stuff, and her voice is wickedly funny and dead-on. (She’s also a hard-core copy editor, which means she’ll know whether I correctly hyphenated “dead-on” in the previous sentence. AND she has a ridiculously awesome sense of style, which means I covet her shoes on a regular basis.) Carla’s own story about trying to get guys to see past the superficial, What the Guys I Date Don’t Know, was published in Marie Claire earlier this year.
Once you’ve read, let the ladies know what you think!
Hauling to the Chapel: Hips Don’t Lie
Last Saturday, I was all jazzed about going to try on my wedding gown for the first time since I picked it out this summer. I had fallen in love with the thing, despite the fact that I wasn’t exactly the sample size and had to guess at what my finished dress would look like. But the saleswoman assured me that they could make a muslin, or trial version, of the dress based on my measurements, then fit that precisely to me, and make the actual dress from my actual proportions.
To a girl who spent much of her overweight youth and teen years sucking in her gut in dressing rooms when things just… didn’t… fit, it seemed like the best idea ever. I wouldn’t be trying to squeeze myself into some designer’s version of what I should look like. In fact, I’d be my very own fit model. I barely paid attention as the saleswoman strung her tape measure around my bust, waist, and hips. As my mom, sister, and future mother-in-law passed around tissues and started talking bridesmaids dresses, I reveled in the fact that the biggest fashion moment of my life was going so swimmingly.
I expected a similar high when I stepped into the dress last weekend. This time I was alone. I put on my satin heels, adjusted my strapless bra, and waited for the seamstress to zip me up. I couldn’t wait to see a complete, if unadorned, version of the dress I’d wear on my big day.
She pulled the zipper up to my tailbone and stopped. Asked me to put my hands on my hips. Pulled a little more. Stopped.
I was a fat girl for many years. I know that stop. “It doesn’t fit, does it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
She tried a few more seamstress tricks. Asked me to shimmy a little. Grabbed the edges of the unzipped bodice with strong hands and valiantly willed them to meet. Wasn’t happening. She assured me that it wasn’t a big deal, that situations like these were the reason they encouraged brides to have the trial dress made. I only half heard her. The voice grabbing more of my attention came from inside me. Am I really that much bigger than I was just a few months ago? How is it possible that I don’t fit into the dress that was MADE FOR ME?
She re-measured. An inch difference. She said it could’ve been anything: an error in the original measurement, water retention, a big meal the night before. She was very kind. We made an appointment for me to return in two weeks and try on the muslin one more time before it would be sent out and used to create my gown. She left so I could change.
I spent a moment looking at myself in the mirror. I didn’t see my arms, which are so much stronger than they were a year ago thanks to some hard work in the gym. I didn’t see my legs, which have carried me swiftly for hour after hour in endurance events. I didn’t see my face, which breaks so easily into a smile whenever I think about all of the good stuff in my ridiculously blessed life.
All I saw were my hips, the plain, white fabric stretched over them pulling at the seams. No longer was I 32 and confident. I was 17, and nobody wanted to ask me to prom.
Angry crying in the car was followed by kind of pathetic crying at The Fiance’s house, where I sheepishly admitted that it was silly to be so upset over something so stupid. He said all the right things—he ALWAYS says all the right things—and I’m in a better place about the whole experience now. After all, if the worst thing in your life is that the first attempt at your gorgeous gown doesn’t quite fit, you’ve got it pretty damn good.
Whenever women in my classes complain about being unhappy with their bodies, I try to tease them out of it. I do think that when you dwell on something so much, it becomes all you see. But please don’t think for a minute that I can’t or don’t empathize, or that I’m past all of that.
It’s just now, even if there are moments of dressing-room panic, I try to let them pass. It may take days. I’m definitely not past the incident, and it was nearly a week ago.
But I refuse to let that kind of thinking take me down.
Haul Buns 