Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Big 5-Oh No!!!

A couple months back I decided I want to be in the best physical condition of my life by the time I turn fifty. The big event will arrive a little less than nine months from now, so I've got to get to work.

Never mind that I also vowed to be in the best physical condition of my life by the time I was thirty, then forty. That doesn't matter anymore. This time I mean it!

With that goal in mind, Walt signed our whole family up for a gym membership this week. We went together for the first time yesterday evening. It took me about two minutes to realize this is going to be harder than I'd previously imagined.

To begin with, someone failed to tell me I needed to make an appointment with the trainer before my first visit, so she could help me come up with a routine and show me how to use the equipment. While Walt jumped right into his exercises, I ended up browsing around inspecting the various torture devices, and feeling rather overwhelmed.

Finally, I climbed onto one of the elliptical machines and chose the "fat burner" mode, entered all my vital information, and set the timer for ten minutes.

Now, I know I'm not a supermodel. Nor do I aspire to enter any body building contests in the near (or distant) future, but I don't think I'm in particularly terrible shape for a woman my age either. For that reason, I was shocked at how quickly I felt done with the workout. After only a few steps on the machine, my heart rate began to rise dramatically.

That was a little scary. I'll admit I was concerned about the possibility of passing out and embarrassing myself in front of the much younger, healthier people who seemed to be treading along effortlessly all around me, more so than I was worried about the possible implications of my speeding pulse.

To make matters worse, my fifteen year old son who was on the treadmill next to me kept reading the information from my machine's digital display out loud for everyone to hear.

"MOM! You're not doing it fast enough! It keeps pausing! You've got to keep walking!"

I didn't want to tell him I was intentionally allowing the thing to pause every few seconds in an effort to save my life.

I glanced at the timer and was happy to see it at four minutes, forty seconds. Whew! I was over half way finished.

My happy little bubble busted almost instantly when I noticed the timer was going up, not down. I didn't have four minutes left ... four minutes was how long I'd been on the stupid thing!

Determined to stay the course yet not be carried out of the gym on a stretcher, I kept plodding along until I reached the ten minute mark.

All's well that ends well, I suppose. I did survive, after all.

After re-evaluating the situation I'm asking myself if it's really necessary that I be in the best physical condition of my life by age fifty? Maybe not. At least for now, I'm going to re-write my script to read I want to be able to last ten minutes on the elliptical machine without giving myself a heart attack.

From here on, I'll take it one step at a time. I may not reach "perfection" over the course of the next nine months, but I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday knowing I did the best I could.

I'm also promising myself that, if by my fifty-first birthday, my hard work has not rewarded me with a firm, healthy body, I'm treating myself to some liposuction!

Becky Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com
11/19/09

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Un-Bearded Lady

Since I had thirty minutes to spare between my late lunch with Mr. Taylor and time to pick the boy up from school today, I decided to treat myself to an eyebrow waxing.

My eyebrows aren't exactly wild or anything. Quite to the contrary, I rarely have to do anything to them at all. Once in a while I'll notice a stray hair or two and go have them tended to. "Once in a while" meaning about three times a year .. maybe.

The last couple times I've gone to the salon, I've allowed the technician to wax my upper lip too, mainly because they always seem disappointed if I tell them "no" when they ask.

So as I lowered myself onto the table today I decided to be generous. I told the young woman with the wax to do my eyebrows and upper lip. She smiled and nodded, then proceeded to begin the process of torturing me to just short of the point of tears.

Rip ... Rip... RIP.... She methodically applied the boiling hot wax, then the cloth and yanked it away, surely pulling each tiny hair out by the roots as she worked.

Just when I thought she was finished, she pointed to my chin, indicating I needed some work there as well.

I protested briefly but before the words, "No, I don't ... think ..." could escape my lips, she was already slapping on the wax. As God is my witness, she smeared the thick bubbly concoction all the way under my chin and down part of my neck.

Do you have any idea how tender the area between the chin and the neck is? I didn't ...until today.

R-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-P!!!

OUCH!

The technician giggled as she continued to the other side of the table and slapped the sticky lava like substance on the side of my face. Yes ... my FACE!

RIIIIIIIIIP!

As much as I would have liked, I couldn't stop her then. God forbid I leave there hairy on one side and not the other.

And thus she proceeded until she was content that my face and neck were as smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. Feeling that any protest would have been in vain, I allowed her to go on. She was, after all, the one with the hot wax at her disposal.

Then, to my horror, I realized she was aiming next for my forehead!

Now, I suppose it's possible that I had a few microscopic hairs on my chin, but on the sides of my face and my forehead? I think not!

"No, thank you!" I said, and sat upright so she would no longer have the postural advantage over me.

The terror in my eyes must have been convincing, because she willingly put down her weapons and allow me to leave the table.

Looking in the mirror she so graciously handed me, I noticed looked like I'd fallen face first into a fire ant colony at dinner time. "Just a little red ..." She assured me with a deceptively sweet smile.

"Just a little red?" Surely if I'd really had facial hair everywhere there were now bright red splotches, someone would have mentioned it to me. Or, should I feel embarrassed to realize I've been walking around all this time unknowingly looking like a circus freak?

I don't want to know. I'll chalk the experience up to lessons learned and move on. In this case, ignorance could very well be a beautiful thing.

Becky Taylor
11-3-09