If The Pants Fit, I Can't Quit

I hate working out. Hate it. I have no endorphins and the only high I get from exercise is the high amount of expletives I say to myself as a mantra, in tine to my pedaling or the music.

But I do it. Six to seven times a week, alternating between riding the bike for an hour and workout videos which I watch up close on a portable DVD player. I never weigh myself because it would totally discourage me. My daily uniform these days consists of yoga pants and jeans which have fit me for years. At least I'm not gaining weight but the jeans don't fall down if I don't wear a belt so the number on the scale can't be decreasing.

I tell myself I workout for my heart and try not to focus on the weight. But doing something you despise six or seven hours each week would definitely be less painful if I could shrink even a little.

Saturday night we went to a dinner party and I wore dress pants that I used to wear to work three years ago. I don't know the last time I had them on and was convinced they wouldn't fit. Even with the regular exercise, the fact is I don't walk nearly as much as I used to, since I am home most days. Think about how many steps you take in the course of an ordinary day: to your car, to your desk, to lunch, etc. My saving grace is our home has lots of stairs and no bathroom on the main floor.

So Saturday night, as I pulled my dress pants from the closet, I told myself, in a moment of physical disgust, that if the pants didn't fit I was going to stop the daily workouts. Why bother? My heart may be healthier but who sees my heart???

Wouldn't you know it, the damn pants fit! And I didn't even have to lay on the bed to fasten them. Insert high level of expletives here.

O.J. was acquitted. When it comes to working out, I got life.

Divine Auto-Vention

While working on a blog post today I misspelled Christmas and autocorrect changed it to Christ mad.

I don't care what your religious beliefs, that ain't good.

I've Got 99 Problems

But A Conure Ain't One

Paging Dr. M

After a fun but busy day out shopping, I am tired. Every step I take is stressful because of my poor vision and throw into the mix a brick walkway, hills, crowds and shopping bags, and I am ready for bed. My back hurts and my feet are talking to me and they are NOT in the Christmas spirit. 
Therefore, I am eating M&M'S like they are Advil. And you know what? I feel the healing power of milk chocolate coated in a hard candy shell. My feet are still barking at me but now so is my tummy. And it's saying YUM!

Wrecking The Halls

With the amount of snowmen, Santas and wise men strewn about, having been released from their plastic bin hibernation, I can assure you, this ain't decking. But as is true with a lot of things in life, it's gotta get ugly before it gets pretty.

I'm No Longer Middle Aged But Still Can't See

I heard a news item this morning about a current diabetes medication that could enable humans to live to 120 years of age. Clinical trials will begin in the U.S. next winter.

In keeping with this blog's only promise, prepare yourself for total honesty. Here it comes.

My first thought was: Where are the drugs to fix optic nerves??? I don't wanna live to 120 if I can't see properly.

From somewhere deep in my psyche, my next immediate thought: After cancer and all the other terrible diseases, of course. See, Mom, you did raise me right. And since cancer took you from me there is no greater enemy. Not even visual impairment.

Taking away the emotion, I'm left to wonder why we are working to extend life expectancy when there are so many people who pass away before they have had the chance to live a long life?

I don't follow politics the way I should nor do I know the protocol and prioritization of medical research. What I do know is people we all love die way before their time. Let's get everybody to their 80s before we worry about 120.

And if by some freak laboratory mix-up we cure optic neuropathy along the way, I will see you not hearing me complain.

Spa Rum Mug

It says a lot that I've been out all day and when I got home I got on the exercise bike instead of decorating for Christmas.

And what it says rhymes with Spa Rum Mug.