Flea Markets & Fat Wars

We’ve discovered a flea market nearby in New Castle. It consists of a huge parking lot full of people selling lots of random stuff. It is also ripe with the tantalizing possibility of sighting an Amish person (we’ve accomplished this one time – and I don’t know why it’s a hot spot for Amish people, but apparently it is, and apparently we think that’s cool…there was even a horse and buggy). Also, most of the people there have basically made careers out of having garage sales and are sometimes a little insane. I was meandering around last weekend after buying a really cool 1950’s scale, when I was spotted and then heckled by one of the regulars (non-Amish, unfortunately…do Amish people heckle? So many unanswered questions…). He was kicked back, pot-belly style, and shirtless. “What’s that ya got there?” he called, and then answered his own question with “A scale huh?” which I just ignored. He proceeded to inform me that he would probably break the scale if he got on it, and then asked me if I knew what scales were for. I was trying to decide if this was real life when Taylor answered his question by saying it was to weigh yourself. Way to encourage him, Taylor. He then responded with, “Nope! It’s so you can get off and eat more! That’s how you lose weight!” and before anyone could say anything to put a stop to his cackling, his toothless wife popped her head out of the van behind him and shrieked, “No it’s not! That’s not how you lose weight! You weigh yourself once a month, ONCE A MONTH IN THE MORNING, and then you WALK IT OFF!!” then, seemingly satisfied that she had said (i.e. screamed) her piece, she kicked back in her shorts in such a way that her legs were kind of oozing out of them, and lit a cigarette. After an awkward smile I turned to walk away, but not before pot-belly shouted, “It looks like you two are in pretty good shape!” which made me start wondering why there were sheets covering the windows in the back of his van. Ew. No more browsing the merch on that side of the market, which means we’ll be missing out on a few antler lamps.

About the scale: since I was preoccupied with other matters during my first few months here (read: crushing depression), my calorie intake was on autopilot. My brain was all like, “Something is wrong! Cue non-stop feeding to power the immune system!” Not helpful was the fact that I had become prone to wearing the comfiest (i.e. stretchiest) pants possible pretty much every day, just because I finally have that luxury, and was therefore lacking the trusty “too snug” warning sign provided by an unyielding pair of jeans or dress pants. So, one scale plus a little more emotional equilibrium has led to a little less inhalation of all things suitable for human consumption (with a questionable definition being used for suitable, mind you). However, something needed to be done about the damage caused by this inhalation of all things phase that I had gone through. While I emerged victorious on the other side, I may have emerged a bit more pudgy than I went in. I decided that something would be Jillian Michael’s 30-Day Shred and every UD gym class I could find. This means that all of the blissful time I used to spend canoodling with oreos and fraternizing with fruit loops is now being eaten up by stationary bicycles, hand weights, and a class called “Butts and Guts”. So ya know, I’m just livin’ the dream over here.

Initially, I tried to take up running with a few people in the department who do it on a regular basis. That was a short-lived affair. These people are incredibly fit and they were making me look bad. No matter how many times I politely informed them that I wasn’t willing (able) to have a conversation while running, they just couldn’t keep their mouths shut. There I’d be, staggering along beside them, invoking every ounce of willpower I had to keep one foot going in front of the other, when they’d ask something like, “So, what are your plans this weekend?” while they bounced along next to me, not out of breath at all. I’d respond with something like, “Huuuuuuuffffffffffffff, alkjsdanwefoi, wooooorrrrkkkkkk”, and they’d be like, “Oh cool! So what are your plans for the future in general? Your thoughts on Obama’s second term? How about your stance on gun control?” At some point I would stop responding entirely because there simply wasn’t enough oxygen in my lungs to fuel both speech and muscle, but this failed to deter them. For two miles straight they would spit out an entire monologue that just caused me to use up oxygen being annoyed, never missing a step or breaking a sweat, apparently only stopping the run at the two-mile mark because otherwise they would have to carry me home.

So I gave that up and tried spinning instead. Efffffffffff that. I knew there would be problems when the instructor began the class explaining how to identify different resistance settings on the bike, because actually just having those settings printed on the dial would be too convenient for the lazy people. She informed us that 60 would feel like riding your bike down a dirt road. Okay, that’s fine. The 70 setting was more like riding through mud. Never done it because I know about sidewalks, but I can sort of imagine what it might feel like. Now, 80 is like riding through taffy. At this point I was glancing sideways at the other bikers to see if I was the only one who was lacking the experience of riding a bike through taffy. Before I could discern the looks on their faces, she moved on to explaining that 90 should feel like riding your bike through drying cement. Um, I would never do that because it would be really rude to the people who had just laid that cement, and also I’m not a crazy person. After deciding that I would just pretend like I was spinning the dial when everyone else was, I was ready to go. About halfway through the class, when my hands were slipping off the handles because I was sweating so much, the instructor started screaming (what is it with these people and their abundance of oxygen?) about standing up on our bikes and pedaling without moving our heads up and down. As I was trying to figure out if she was joking, she got off her bike and walked over to mine, turned my dial up by like 6 turns while explaining to me that this would actually make my life easier, and flounced back up to her bike. I think I dripped a small river of sweat onto her hand while she was turning that dial, which I then promptly turned back by 7 turns with my last bit of energy. As we continued trying to pedal a bike through hardening cement without moving our heads (I guess these are called “isolations”, probably as in they are meant to make you feel isolated from the rest of the world because you are the only one who doesn’t know about taffy roads, and if you did, you would be eating them, not biking through them), she started counting down. I think exercise instructors are taught a different time system than the rest of us. She would scream, “5 more seconds!!” and I would count to 8 in my head before she screamed “3 more seconds!!” Listen, lady, just because I don’t currently appear to have mastered things taught in kindergarten, such as riding a bike or breathing softly through my nose when in public instead of doing this drooling/foaming thing currently happening with my mouth, doesn’t mean I can’t count. When you say 5 more seconds, I’M STOPPING AFTER I COUNT TO FIVE. Your threat to turn up anyone’s resistance who stops early doesn’t scare me. Once I catch my breath, your face is gonna be all the resistance I need for a little after-spin-class bicep workout.

Then there’s Jillian. Oh, Jillian. I’m trying so hard to work past the BURNING FLAMES in my thighs while she’s strolling around the workout room, chewing people up and spitting them out, and yelling at me from the screen about how I’d better stop “phoning it in” if I want to get something out of this 20-minute workout. To make matters worse, I generally end up losing more precious oxygen by screaming back about how my legs hurt from riding a bike through drying cement and she’d better shut up because I’m still fucking jump roping over here even though I’ll probably be dead by the end of the day, either because my downstairs neighbors kill me or my calves do. 

And what have I gotten from all this pain and misery, you ask? Pants that fit even worse than they did before, that’s what. I did a rage-induced Google search about this and am now suspicious that this pants issue is a result of my body hoarding water to repair all the tears I’ve created in my muscles, which throb on a continual basis these days and even hurt when anything touches me, like even the couch. I’m miserable and I miss pudding. Also, I’m tired of walking out of the gym looking like the tomato from Veggie Tales. I cannot fathom how my face gets that red while the rest of my body carries on with the whole ghostly white thing.

So why don’t I give up? Well it’s not because I have any hopes for a hot body, that’s for sure. These rolls are in it for the long haul. I don’t give up because after I catch my breath, I get this really weird feeling that I kind of like. I used to have this feeling before I moved here; in fact, I have vague memories of this feeling being around a lot. I think I used to call it happiness. Yes, and not only happiness, it’s happiness on steroids. It usually hits around the time I step out of the shower after a workout. I become this sassy, hopeful, grinning little creature who thinks life is the best thing that ever happened to her. God help the people hanging around during this part of my day. I will Talk. Your. Ear. Off. I will thank you for every contribution you’ve ever made to my life and I will tell you about every miniscule, happy little thought flitting around in my brain. I will tell you that I adore Jillian Michaels and that I want to get to know my spin teacher better because she seems like a nice, reasonable person. I will be nice to people that I usually avoid, which really confuses them when the yo-yo comes back up and I remember that I think they’re annoying and proceed with my usual avoidance behavior. I belt out hearty renditions of Lion King songs as I run assays in the lab, making all the undergraduates nervous because they don’t understand why the most sullen and cranky graduate student in the lab is dancing past them every few minutes (as much as these swollen calves are allowing dancing to happen, that is) singing hakuna matata at the top of her lungs.

Fortunately for my Facebook friends, I have refrained from posting my workouts every day, but this blog may be the first step down a slippery slope, so be warned. Maybe don’t worry too much though, the couch and I have always had a touch and go relationship and we usually get back together against our (and Jillian Michael’s) better judgment.