Wednesday, February 24, 2010
So, I haven't blogged in a little while, and there's a very happy reason for this: I got to see my husband! That's right, folks, Dr. Twitchy got to spend four glorious days with her hunky husband, the Most Reverend Dr. Twitchy. How lovely.
Unfortunately, being with His Eminence was not lovely for the whole fitting-into-my-pants plan. No sirree, Bob. It was not good at all. By my (completely unrecorded) estimate, I probably consumed 12,000 calories over the time we were together. Yikes!
On the one hand, I am very blessed that after ten plus years of marriage, spending time with my man is a celebration. On the other hand, I need to learn to celebrate without, say, tacos. (We celebrated in some other ways, too, but this is a family-friendly blog.) And the scary thing is, I just kind of pulled "taco" out of the air, because I can't even remember what I ate when we were together. All I remember is thinking, "Probably I shouldn't eat that" (and eating it anyway) and thinking, "Probably I should stop after one serving" (and not stopping). So I totally ignored my diet to eat food that was so unmemorable that I can't remember it. (That last bit was your tautology for the day.)
So what have we learned here? First, we've learned that more of the x-rated celebrating and less of the g-rated celebrating will have to be part of my weekends with Hubby. Second, we've learned that husband=calories, so he will have to go. OK, I'm kidding. But I have learned that I need to be more mindful of what I'm doing. Third, we've learned that the inner voice saying "Put down the cookie" is actually my friend, and that friend may actually need to start slapping me if I don't start listening to her.
So, anyway, I'm back, and, unfortunately, there is slightly more of me to love. But not for long.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
If you read my blogs you will know that I am just coming off of Dance Weekend. Despite the fact that the only part of my body that does not ache right now is my elbows, I had a great time...right up until the time that my dance buddies started posting pictures on Facebook.
The first set of pictures was OK. For some reason, one of the photographers took a lot of pictures of my backside, but I don't really blame him, because my bottom is so alluring.
That's my backside on the left below the black tank top in the turquoise flowered skirt. (No, not the blonde featured prominently in the foreground. That's a lovely woman named Millie. I'm behind her and to the left. You may have to squint. Yes, that's it.) I like how the woman in the pink shirt is hiding a lot of my upper body so I look half as big. Please try not to notice that I appear to be on the wrong foot. I choose to believe that every other woman in the room is on the wrong foot, instead.
Then there were some pictures of my face. I looked tired. I looked sweaty, but overall, I looked no better or worse than the next tired, sweaty guy. My favorite picture of me was this one:
I'm front and center between the two guys. Can I twirl fast or what?
But then there was this picture:
Yikes! First of all, how many chins do I have here, anyway? Secondly, why does my shape have no shape? I have shape in the backside pictures. Thirdly, what the heck is going on with my hair? Fourthly, what was I thinking with that brown t-shirt?
So, of course, my first impulse is to hide this picture and beg the photographer to remove it from Facebook, delete it from his camera, and possibly run over the camera with a truck for good measure. But then I thought, who cares? Sometimes we don't always look good. Sometimes, in fact, we look fat and hot and sweaty and horrible. Sometimes our bodies look like potatoes on toothpicks. But sometimes our backside looks very alluring. And, besides, I do appear to be having a heck of a good time.
Monday, February 15, 2010
This weekend I attended Knoxville dance weekend. If you had been there, you might have seen something you typically don't see: men in skirts. Now, I do not mean men in kilts (although there was some of that, too). I also do not mean men in drag (although if they were particularly skillful at it, perhaps there were some of those, too). I mean men in skirts. Not all of the men were in skirts; not even MOST of the men were in skirts, but there were many men in skirts.
As I tried to explain to my flat mate, several of the men who come to dance weekend wear skirts for a couple of reasons. When you get 500 people on a dance floor, it is hot. What all women know and I suspect very few men do is that there are few articles of clothing cooler than a big, lightweight, full skirt. It doesn't bind any part of your body except the waist band, and you can generate your own breeze. Often the joy of skirts for women is ruined with the hell of pantyhose, but I didn't see any men in pantyhose.
The men also wear skirts because if you are going to engage in certain types of dance, like Contra, there is a lot of spinning. When you twirl in a skirt, it looks awesome. When you twirl in pants, not so much. One of the most manly dances there is (in my humble opinion) is a Scottish county dance called The Reel of the 51st. It was devised by a group of WWII soldiers being held in a German prison camp. The Reel of the 51st is specifically devised to make your kilt fly up and out. So, even Scottish fighting men in the forties understood the beauty of the twirly skirt. (Don't take my word for it: www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHB7gpR2aD4&
I noticed this year that some of the most experienced male dancers wore some very brave skirts, indeed. A typical dance weekend skirt on a man is usually dark colored, lightweight, somewhat full, and ankle-length. But this was not always the case this weekend. Skirts with flowered prints were not uncommon. Skirts with ruffles on the bottom were more rare, but not unheard of. In one case, one of the men wore a bright pink handkerchief skirt so short it barely covered his goolies. OK, he got some stares, but a woman who wore a skirt that short would have gotten them, too. But he was an amazing dancer. He said that the skirt was a nice change from his usual jeans and t-shirt that he wears working construction. I bet it was.
I have to admit that after the initial shock of seeing men (many of whom I know pretty well) in skirts at my first dance weekend, I haven't given the skirt-wearing much thought over the years. After being on SP, however, I started to reflect that much could be learned from these fashion-forward men in their little ruffly skirts. These men and going out and doing what they love (dancing) in clothing that is utterly appropriate for the activity. They are not worried that it's not manly (or, in the case of Mr. Pink Skirt they are not worried that their outfit might be a little too evidently manly). They are not worried about what people will say. They just dance because it's fun. So should you.
Friday, February 12, 2010
I have noticed that many Sparkers have a goal of running a 5K. I applaud that goal, but you won't be seeing me at any of those starting lines. I hate to run. I think running should only be done when you're being chased...by a bear...with rabies. And only then if you really, really, really don't want to be eaten (which may still be better than running, in my humble opinion).
Having said that, I am counting the hours (5 more to go) until the beginning of Cabin Fever, Knoxville's annual dance weekend. Cabin Fever is a (mostly) folk dance weekend where, if you dance every dance, you can put in 23 hours of contra, English country, waltz, tango, and swing between 7:30 on Friday night and 3 p.m. Sunday afternoon. Last year I danced 21 of the 23 hours.
Last month, one of my friends advised me that 15 minutes of dancing was the health equivalent of a half mile of jogging. That means that if I dance as much as I danced last year (and I've set a goal to dance a little more), I will dance the equivalent of a twenty-two mile run! That's nearly a marathon folks! (Although, I will admit that most people do not take three days to run a marathon, although I certainly would). What's more, in the process of all of this dancing, I will get to meet nice people and see old friends (and sweat on them).
I will also confess right now that my tradition, at the end of three days of dancing, is to go to a local steak house and eat a big sirloin steak, a giant baked potato with sour cream and butter, and a gargantuan tossed salad. Even knowing I'll have to plot it all in my nutrition tracker and I will likely eat two days worth of calories in one meal is unlikely to make me give up this tradition. But maybe this year I'll hold the butter.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
My husband had a secretary who was always sure that people are plotting against her. If you said, "I love your shoes!" she would be sure that what you really meant was, "What a hideous skirt!" She interpreted the actions of others (regardless of those actions) as a threat. If I picked up my husband for lunch, it was because we wanted to go off to talk about her behind her back. If I told my husband that I loved him within her earshot, she assumed I was just trying to rub her single status in her face.
What I found both tragic and laughable about this person was that she assumed that everyone was thinking about her all the time. I wanted to grab her and shake her and say, "Nobody cares about you!" (which would have been really mean--but, honestly, the woman got on my last nerve). No one was going out of their way to make her life difficult, because everyone was concerned about their own lives.
I have to remind myself of this periodically when I am in the gym surrounded by 20-year olds. I have to remind myself that these people are not looking at me thinking, "What's the fat old woman doing here?" My grocer is not thinking, "Well, she's gained weight." The people at the restaurant are not scrutinizing the fat content of my lunch order and imagining all that fat on my bottom.
How do I know this? I know this because 99% of the time I'm thinking about myself, which probably means that 99% of the time everyone else is thinking about themselves, too. What I do in the gym, I do for me, and no one else there cares whether I do it or not, or how poorly, or for how long. The cute little blonde on the treadmill might be thinking of the cute boy on the next treadmill over, but she is not thinking about me. And if she is, I don't care, because I'm not thinking about her, either.
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