Confused Woman!

This winter, I finally broke down and decided to lease a new car.  I loved my old car, but the constant smell of gas in the vehicle, having to drive with the windows down in sub-zero temps, and the mechanic having no idea what the cause was, drove me to pull the plug.

It’s awesome having a new car…the “new car smell” is heaven on earth.  The interior is fresh and immaculate…not covered with ground up Cheerios and sticky candy wrappers.  It was great at first, and then I became the paranoid new car owner.

Everywhere I had to park I made sure I was in the far corner of the lot.  Of course, there’s the asshole who still parks next to you in Siberia, but for the most part there’s some sense of peace with the location and distance.

If there was someone who dared park next to my baby, I would walk around the car searching every inch like a medical exam for a ding.  One day I did find a small nick in the rear passenger door.  It was glaringly obvious to me however my boyfriend thought I was nuts since he couldn’t find it.

So as much as I love my car, I’m now completely obsessed with keeping the car in pristine condition.  With the old car, I didn’t care if my daughter threw trash on the floor or ate in the car.  Now, there is no consumption of food and absolutely no colored drinks in the back.  I nearly suffered a heart attack when she accidentally spilled some dirt on the seat from a shrub we just bought.

I think I need to attend some therapy group to cure my obsession or just get the first ding out of the way and move on.  Nothing too severe…maybe just a love tap with the garbage can or a neighboring tree.  Wow, I am losing it…I’m planning a ding…where’s the Xanax?!

Today, I decided to get back on the stubborn exercise horse and back in the saddle again.  This wasn’t easy, mind you.  The exercise horse was running away and attempting to buck me off.  All winter, it was easy to just give up and walk away.

However, I’m now at the point where I’m determined to get on that damn horse and ride it into the sunset.  It’s a perfect time…winter’s finally over (I hope) and my company is giving us a deal we can’t refuse.  With all the discounts, the club membership about a dollar a day.

The club is across the street from my office and on the way home, so I really have zero excuses not to get there.  I also have a co-worker I’m basically bullying to go with me so I’m accountable to someone.  The guilt of letting someone down is far more effective than any weight-loss ad.

I began with an assessment by a trainer, which basically confirmed what I already know…I’m a sad sack and I need to get my fitness shit together.  We also discussed my abysmal diet and what my goals are.  I don’t have huge goals…the typical…lose weight, get toned, and not have my legs look like blue sausages in my jeans.

The program requires I wear a heart monitor so I know what level I’m working out at to achieve optimal fat-burning levels.  Of course, my monitor didn’t work.  I knew I wasn’t dead because I was there talking to the trainer.  He said not to worry about it and go ahead with the kickboxing class.  Great idea.

I get into the class and it’s awesome, because it’s only me and two other people in attendance. I’m thinking this is good…less people to humiliate myself in front of.  Then the class starts and I start to realize I’m clearly out of my league.

The woman in front of me is not even breaking a sweat and the guy next to me is punching the bag like a prize-fighter.  Meanwhile, I’m beet red and breathing like I smoke three packs a day. We start kicking the bags and I’m trying to kick the bag without falling backwards.

Next comes the floor work…yeah, right…I’m barely breathing, the heart rate monitor isn’t working and now you want me to do push-ups and planks?  Uh huh…not happening.

Overall, it was a good experience and I do plan to continue, even though as I’m writing this I can barely type I’m in so much pain.  Tomorrow is the kettlebell class…let’s hope I don’t launch the bell or drop it on my feet.

Alright….here we go.  Yet another attempt to begin a fitness regimen and “non-diet”.  I say “non-diet” because diets never work.  You eat grass and carrot sticks for a week and then you’re sick of it and go on a hog fest at McDonald’s.  Yeah…don’t act like you’ve never done that.  Whatever.

I found a small health club near my office that is offering some good discounts, making the monthly membership thirty dollars, which is dirt cheap.  I figure if it’s walking distance from work and on my way home, how can I not workout, right?

I’ve belonged to more health clubs then you can shake a wet towel at, yet, I’m still out of shape. You get the resolution to be active and get fit, and then something or someone interferes and your plan goes to hell.

The same goes for the “non-diet”.  For awhile, I was really good about passing on the Miller Lite and eating at home making healthy recipes.  It was great…until life happened…divorce, new job, moving. The diet became the pig-out, and that became the security/comfort blanket.  Not good.

Now that life is more settled and I have a hot man in my life, I’m ready to get back on track.  It hasn’t been easy, considering we’ve had the worst winter ever and work has been a bitch.

However, I’m determined to start the eating right/exercise program again.  I figure I’ll keep fighting the fight until I either take a dirt nap or hit my head and have “tasty food amnesia”.  This condition will wipe out every memory of yummy food and replace it with a desire for the grass and carrot sticks.  Well, one can dream anyways.

Well, there really wasn’t one, but there should have been.  Last weekend, I witnessed more bad driving than I’ve ever seen.  It was awful.  By Sunday, I was seriously beginning to think there was an Idiot Drivers Convention in town.

I live in Minnesota, which is home to “Minnesota Nice”.  Everyone who visits says we’re so friendly…yeah…to your face.  Behind your back, different story.  This is the land of 10,000 passive-aggressive acts.  Unfortunately, most are played out on the road.

The person in the minivan flipping you off at the light because you dared to actually stop for it, would never confront you in the checkout lane, even though you cut in line.  You’ll get the sigh, the eye-roll or under-the-breath murmur, but not a direct interaction.

That’s why it’s idiot central on the roads.  All that pent-up aggression has to be let out somewhere, so why not during rush hour?  What’s wrong with coming to a dead-stop in the middle of the freeway to cut over a couple of lanes to make your exit?

The drivers I love the most are the weekenders.  Friday afternoon, they literally shut off their brains and go into “driving zombie mode”.  For the rest of the weekend, they are tuned out to anyone and everyone around them.  They have somewhere to go, and who cares if anyone’s around.

This is the person who all of a sudden decides to switch lanes because they were too busy blabbing about the latest tuna casserole recipe with Aunt Hazel.  While debating what crap they’re going to put in the jello mold for the Johnson Family Reunion, they’ll miss the stop sign in the parking lot.  Oops.

I wish there was a way these drivers could be tagged, like deer, so you’d know when they were on the roads.  It would be a little GPS chip to let me know where they’re at so I can avoid them like the plague.