Archive for the ‘Fitness’ Category

Oooh...I wonder if they come in Momover Lady size!

I’ve blogged before about “Elephant Plaza” in front of our condo complex – a lovely hangout area with water-spouting bronzey-brassy pachyderms that get swapped-out for an ice-skating rink every winter. All through the shivery months (Momover Lady kinda really hates the shivery months), whenever I zip by all those peeps skating their little hearts out, I invariably mutter to myself:

“I wonder if we’ll one day regret the fact that we never use this rink. This one, right here, in front of our frost-bitten noses.”

So this weekend, in an effort to stave off the ice-skating rink regret that may (or may not) be headed my way in the future, when we move to the New England equivalent of Barbie’s Dream House, I decided to just do it, all Nike-likey.

I got the Wee Lass psyched for it early in the week, and this morning, right after I got back from a birthday prezzie run to Target (she’s getting a Kindle Fire and yet another Lalaloopsy), she and I bundled up and headed downstairs.

Hubby begged off the adventure, but was still semi-lurking nearby, pretending to be shopping at the supermarket right behind the rink.

So how’d it go? Eh – at least as far as the Wee Lass is concerned. She gripped the sides the entire time, fell a lot, and didn’t even make it all the way around twice before throwing in the towel the second she spotted Dad hiding behind a potted plant.

She’s only gone one other time, so I wasn’t especially thrilled that she’d already decided she’s “over” it. Several of her friends are out there all the time, careening around the ice like mini Michelle Kwans.

Still, I didn’t want to push too hard. Maybe it’s just not her thing. She’s a great little swimmer and totally loves her Wednesday afternoon hip-hop class, so it’s not like she gives up on everything too early.

After they left, I did several more laps, carefully avoiding the crazy kids with the helmets falling on their tiny tushes all around me. I wasn’t going very fast, but I could definitely feel it in my thighs, which was awesome.

As a teenager growing up in Newport, ice skating at the rink at this prep school was pretty much socially mandatory, even for us stoners who attended the neighboring public high school. So of course I went all the time, and even, if memory serves, got semi-decent at it.

Of course that was eons ago. Now it’s all about the Wee Lass, and Hubby, and making sure we don’t have any regrets about not using the ice-skating rink that lives, for a few months a year, literally in our front yard.

But personally, I’m more into the tennis courts on top of our building. That’s really my thing, baby. Hubby’s too. Thwack.

Chiseled, right? See what I'm yammering about?

Many, many years ago, I was assigned a story for W about an upcoming Chanel perfume commercial, which was being directed by the legendary French artist Jean-Paul Goude. The very young and impossibly gorgeous Vanessa Paradis was starring in the spot, and I was to visit the Union Square set, absorb the vibe, chat up the ultra-charming Goude, and hightail it back to the office.

I arrive, and Paradis is literally swinging in a massive, human-scale bird-cage. (Here’s a rickety old YouTube link to the commercial, it’s pretty major.) Though she’s up in the air, I can see from a distance how ravishing she is, and exactly why Chanel cast her as the “face” of its Coco scent.

Later, on a break from filming, I talk with her a bit. And I am seized by a level of jealousy I have not felt before this encounter, nor since. I’d been around so many of the glamazons of the day – Cindy Crawford, Christy Turlington, etc – but none of them pierced my self-confidence bubble quite the way Paradis did.

Thus it was hardly a surprise to me when I read that Johnny Depp fell in love with Paradis the second he laid eyes on her. They had two kids and lived a semi-secluded, deeply glam life – homes in France and LA, their own private cluster of islands – mostly away from prying eyes.

So much for the away from prying eyes bit; this week’s People informs us that the gorge couple is now leading “‘sad’ separate lives.’”

It’s not a happy tale, as you can imagine. And while I certainly wish Paradis well, I couldn’t help but feel that little jealousy-pang boomerang right back when I cracked open my issue of the mag.

Her entire upper body – arms, shoulders, chest – looks like it’s carved from a block of Carrara marble. I had no idea she was in such great shape. I want to know her workout secrets, and I can’t find them anywhere.

Project!

OMG, so adorable. Too cute to even nibble.

On paper, it would seem like I’d be a perfect candidate for yoga addiction. I’m super-crunchy, love meditation and I totally buy into the notion that poses “massage” certain parts of our bod and get the lymph fluid moving.

The problem: I just don’t like to actually do it. When it’s too easy, I feel like I’m not getting enough of a workout. And when it’s too hard, it hurts like a mother-effer.

Last year, when Hubby and I were embroiled in P90X, we both detested “yoga day” in the workout rotation. There’s nothing breezy about P90X, but that 90 minutes of Yoga X is a killer. And we weren’t alone in our disgruntlement; there is much chatter on the World Wide Interweb about the difficulty – and ouch factor – of that routine.

Yes, I know there is a happy medium, some blissed-out middle ground between a wussy, wimpy faux-ga class (ooh! I just coined another new word! “faux-ga”!) and Yoga X.

But I probably won’t be seeking it out. And in the back of my mind, I’ll also now be recalling snippets of a rather damning story in today’s New York Times Magazine. Entitled “How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body,” it’s excerpted from a new book, and delves into how competitive the practice has become. And how today, no one wants to be caught dead executing simple poses.

Rather, they want to twist themselves like a pretzel, à la the joint-popping possessed chick in that creepy new exorcism movie that’s blowing up the box office this weekend.

In all honesty, I haven’t finished reading the rawther lengthy article yet. I’ve been on serious laundry detail today – seven loads and counting! – and I also had to design the festive invitations for the Wee Lass’s birthday party, which is once again nipping at our heels.

But I’m sure the author will wrap it up with a lovely bow, and tell us how great yoga is for our mind, body and spirit, and how we should totally keep doing it as long as we’re careful not to morph into contortionists just to get that elusive nod of approval from our yoga teacher. Or, better yet, envious glares from our mat-mates.

Or maybe he won’t. Maybe we’ve entered a new era of yoga-bashing, with this William J. Broad dude leading the charge. I won’t know until I finish reading. And that’s after I finish Load 8 of laundry.

Hop to it, hot mama.

I like easy. I like auto-pilot. I like one-stop shopping that tones more than one – and preferably many – body parts at once.

That, and the crazy endorphin rush, is the reason I get into such a serious running rut when it’s warm outside. I loooooove it. Somehow both energizing and calming, it’s a moving meditation, with the added benny of calorie-burning.

Still, as much as I dig it, I ain’t about to run along the Hudson River when the temperature drops down to the single digits. I’m way too much of wimp for that.

Enter jumping rope, stage left.

Because it’s plyometric – albeit at a low level – jumping rope chisels your stomach at the same time it carves up your arms, legs and backside. And it burns a boatload of calories – roughly 300 per half-hour, which is usually all I can get through without collapsing.

But I don’t really jump for a set amount of time. Instead, I go by actual revolutions. I have a special rope with a built-in counter that is pure and utter genius. I’m on my second one and I wish I’d bought ten of them because I think they’re discontinued. Why does all the best stuff get discontinued? It’s so wack.

Anyway, I try to get to at least 2000 jumps per session. This morning, because I was pressed for time, I only got to 1700. But I see are lots of 3000s lately in my geeky little workout log, which I’m psyched about.

In the weeks leading up to my wedding, I routinely clocked 5000 jumps. And in pictures of that glorious day (actually it was in the evening, so chic), I have the carved arms to show for it.

I don’t really understand exactly how jumping rope tones your arms. I can barely wrap my mind around why it firms up your core. But I’ll at least take a stab at that explanation: By definition, plyometrics, aka “jump training” forces your body – particularly your midsection – to try to stabilize itself once your feet hit the floor after leaping in the air.

And I, for one, could really use a little core-firming right now. Eating too much over the hollies has given me an unsightly muffin top which must be banished ASAP. So for the next few months I’ll be jump, jump, jumping while I watch Matt Lauer and wait for the Wee Lass to drag her sleepy self out of bed for school. Yay one-stop fitness shopping.

I need to scamper back on the Wellness Wagon.

In consulting my geeky fitness log, I see that I’ve worked out 169 times in 2011.

Pretty good, right? Not as good as last year – 195 – but then I was on a mad quest to get to 200 workouts. (To new readers who may be aghast that I keep a fitness log: I have no life, and admit so freely.)

But here’s the problem: According to my trusty little notebook, the last time I exercised – I ran outdoors – was on 11/25.

November 25 was a really, really long time ago. If you’re trying to stay fit, which I am, it’s an eternity.

My meditation sessions have been spotty too. Not as spotty, but spotty all the same.

So what’s my lame-ass story? Well, I can absolutely trace the origins of my sloth to that gnarly post-Thanksgiving stomach virus I had a few weeks back.

But still, what the hell? That was ages ago. Plus, it was pretty short-lived. I was fully back to my perky self circa 12/1.

And here we are, two weeks later.

I guess I can also “blame” the fact that I’ve been working in the city three days a week, plus the other two days here. And that I had to whip this house into Martha Stewart-level perfection for our holiday party last weekend.

But that’s all BS, and I know that. Je detest excuses. That’s because I’m convinced that we all make time for exactly what we want to make time for.

Case in point: Have I missed a single episode of RHOBH or Boardwalk Empire in the past three weeks? Of course I haven’t.

So, obvi, when it comes to all this taking-primo-care-of-myself stuff, I get in good ruts and I get in bad ruts.

And today, I’m officially pushing myself back into a good rut. I’ll have lots of time off from work for Xmas, and we’re landlocked here in Joisy for the holidays, so there is literally no excuse not to get back in the groove.

I always think of the “virtuous circle” concept when I need to shore up my resolve around keeping the chubbies – and the crazies and stress that come from not meditating – at bay. I’ve kind of invented my own definition of a virtuous circle, because it’s primarily an economic term. But in Momover Lady Lexicon, it’s essentially “the more good things you do for yourself, the more good things you want to do for yourself.”

There’s a lovely domino effect, in that you’re less likely to undo that 30-minute session on the Elliptical with a crummy Twinkie. Or, my personal bête noire: Kettle Chips – in almost any flavor, they’re all impossibly delish.

Alrighty, today’s the day I hop off the Excuses Express and climb back on to the Wellness Wagon. Wish me luck.

Running the numbers on motivation.

The blog post “headline” above is an actual cover line from a fitness mag I picked up at the newsstand this week.

How insane is that?

I don’t want to slam this particular mag on a happy, peppy Friday morning – especially since I consider it to be one of the most motivating, git-yer-fanny-in-gear workout and nutrition guides on the market.

But when I see stuff like that – 8748 of anything – one and only one thought runs through my head: Amateur Hour.

Know that this is an informed opinion; I have worked and written for women’s magazines for a very, very long time. Thus, I’ve seen various cover line trends come and go.

And in the not-too-distant past, it was very much a numbers game. It was all,  “579 Ways to Wear the New Fall Looks,” and “197 Reasons Why You’ll Die If You Don’t Use Sunblock” and “433 5-Minute Chicken Recipes.”

It got a little crazy, particularly for the low-level staffer whose job it is to literally count these ways, reasons and recipes. Seriously. Any magazine of quality has a designated “counter.” I have witnessed the struggle they sometimes go through when upper management really, really wants to use the number 213, and they can only sleuth out 209 of whatever it is that’s supposed to change the reader’s life.

Now, happily, the pendulum is swinging in a much more realistic direction. Those crazy numbers have been dialed back in. I just picked up a recent issue of O in a stack by my desk and this is verbatim cover verbiage: “What’s Holding You Back? 9 Ways to Change Old Patterns and Spark New Breakthroughs.”

Nine I can handle. 8748? Not so much.

Don’t get me wrong – I am the biggest cover line sucker on the planet. I’m completely addicted to magazines, and have been since Mommy got me a subscription to Vogue circa ninth grade. And clearly, I’m wildly aspirational; I always want to believe that if I just do this, or just do that, all will be magically transformed and I’ll be 10 inches taller. (Without the skyscraper “ER” shoes.)

But I don’t think I need almost 9000 ways to sculpt my hottest lower body. I’d settle for 90. Think I’ll deploy some of ‘em at the gym right now. Bon weekend, chère amies.

Deep thoughts are contained in these pages.

Before we get started, may I please take a sec to cast a spotlight on my fellow birthday buddies? Lauren Hutton and Martin Scorsese. Two very cool cats. A cool Scorpio girl cat and a cool Scorpio boy cat. Not that I’m biased, but I consider Scorpio to be the most bitching sign in the zodiac. We are all that.

So the thing about Scorps is that we’re often fixated on re-invention. We like to switch it up. Keep things moving. Keep ourselves moving. And even if you’re only a casual reader of this itty bitty website, you can glean that I like to tinker and fuss with the Me Project.

Sure, I might sit on my fat –s from time to time, knitting and watching RHOBH (Monday’s ep was a jaw-dropper; the “win” goes to Pinky), but mostly I can be found engaged in all manner of activities.

Like recently, when I hauled myself to a Nalini Method class at Rupa Mehta’s newish digs on the West side of Gotham. I hadn’t seen her for roughly a year, when I last took her class and was so sore I couldn’t move for days. Wowza.

This time, I was in slightly better shape (thank you P90X, thank you endless running along the Hudson River), so I wasn’t quite as stiff and rickety in the ensuing 48 hours. And that’s a good thing, because I had some work to do: Reading Rupa’s inspiring, original book about the “weight of words” and picking a single one that would serve as a catchphrase and guiding principle for my entire life.

Pressure much?

For the record, Rupa’s “one word” is CONNECT. Her chipper business colleague – Shannon – has chosen CULTIVATE.

Those are meaningful. Substantial.

But I wasn’t after substantial. I was after superficial. Superficial with a fairy-dust sprinkling of edge and discipline. And after wracking my brain for my “one” and only – I am a word person; words are my joy and my livelihood – here’s what I came up with:

CRISP.

CRISP as in: Buttoned-down. Organized. Decisive. Focused.

Sometimes I embody those values. But not nearly enough. Certainly not every day.

My desire to be CRISP doesn’t mean I’ll be morphing back into the workaholic I was in my swingle and pre-baby years. N-e-v-e-r again will I be so career-obsessed.

But can’t I be CRISP about blasting through my To Do list in the morning so I can hang out with the Wee Lass in the park all afternoon? Or keeping my lovely home a zero-clutter zone akin to a cold, impersonal hotel? (Swoon. Love cold, impersonal hotels.) Or attempting to learn French for the zillionth time? Or getting over my driving phobia so I can spirit us away to the town pool at a moment’s notice, and not have to rely so heavily on Hubby?

Clearly, I’ll be getting a lot of mileage out of the multi-dimensional CRISP.

After I told Shannon what my “one” was, I asked him (that’s not a typo; Shannon’s a dude), to pass it along to Rupa for her feedback. And she emailed back both her thoughts on my choice, as well as a handy-dandy definition of my word:

“Whenever someone comes to me with their word, I love to look up the definition. I love that Dana is driven to have it together and be buttoned-down, but what I also find interesting is her humble, driven energy to be fresh and new, hence her site and life goals. And, she seems to be able to make decisions and follow her passion in her unique way which all fall in line with the definition of crisp. She’s not afraid to be different and I think her word reflects that too:)”

*************************************************************************************************************

I likey. I’ve always wanted to be slightly intimidating, and to cut people off mid-sentence, crisply. But I haven’t quite nailed the crisp writing bit. At least for this blog. In my “real” work, I’m not nearly as chatty.

I thought it was very sweet of Rupa to take the time to suss-out my wacky word. And before I forget, I want to let all you mamas know that for the 9:35 and 10:45 am Nalini Method classes, she’s offering free on-site childcare (complete with creative movement, art and story time throughout December).

Okay, I’m nipping off for a pedi as part of my dawn to dusk birthday celebration. While I’m out, be sure to pick your “one word.” It just might help you re-org your very existence.

Tony P90X Horton and a super-fit gal pal, mid-jump knee tuck.

I just killed it up in our family room -  58 long, painful minutes of plyometrics with my old buddy Tony. That’s a crazy-sweaty workout, which entails lots of leaping. Tons of leaping. And while you wouldn’t think, necessarily, that hopping around would eventually lead to flatter abs, somehow, miraculously, it totally does.

How do I know plyometrics eventually leads to flatter abs? Here’s how: When I do plyometrics I have flatter abs. When I don’t do plyometrics – even if I’m running a lot, which I have been, for months – my abs aren’t as flat.

That’s what is commonly known as “anecdotal” evidence. It’s the “because I said so” branch of theory-proving.

And by the way, I use the term “flatter” here very loosely; no one would ever look at me and say, “Wow, Momover Lady, you are so very, very chiseled.”

Still (and here I go getting all anecdotal again), when I was doing P90X full-throttle last winter and spring, I had the beginnings of a two-pack, if you squinted really hard when you gazed upon my lovely form. Granted, some of that had to do with the fact that I was also cranking through a lot of Ab Ripper X workouts, but there is no question the plyometrics also helped deflate my mommy pooch.

So what exactly is (are?) plyometrics? Glad you asked, dear reader.

This is lifted verbatim from the P90X Extreme Home Fitness guide:

“Plyometrics are drills designed to connect strength with speed to produce power. Also known as ‘jump training,’ this technique emerged in Eastern Europe in the early 1970s. Coined by American track coach Fred Wilt, the term derives from the Latin plyo+metrics, or ‘measurable increases.’”

The Momover Lady translation: It entails lots of leaping. Tons of leaping.

I already said that? Well, that’s because it’s true. The truth is spoken here.

And here’s the abbreviated version of how plyometrics can bust your gut: One, it burns beaucoup calories, which automatically pares inches off your midsection. Two, the jumping action works your core by forcing you to stabilize yourself post-leap. And three, with certain plyo moves, you’re bringing your knees up to your chest, which pounds your entire lower abdominal region.

A classic example of what I’m talking about, and by far the hardest move in the P90X plyo workout, is a jump-knee tuck. These are hard as s–t. Don’t believe me? Take a gander at this cheesy metalhead YouTube video and then give me a jingle.

I’m scared of how sore I’m going to be tomorrow after all that jump knee tucking.

But mama wants flatter abs, so mama has to suck it up. Or tuck it up. Wait, that sounds weird.

Hello Brad Pitt, all shirtless and ciggied.

I hate to spring a really stunning conclusion on you on a sleepy Tuesday morning, but I came to one recently, and I feel duty-bound to reveal it:

When it comes to aging, we have a lot of control over how our bodies look. Our faces? Not so much.

There, I said it.

Sure, you can cut and paste a bit. And with any luck, you won’t resemble one of those glamour-pusses gone wrong who populate the “Plastic Surgery Disasters” issues of Star magazine. Those are mesmerizing. And, in their own weird way, a complete and total public service.

But I’d like to think – and I actually do think – that there’s a different wave crashing over popular culture right now: Guys with banging bods and craggy, imperfect faces. Cases in point: Daniel Craig, Jason Statham, Mark Wahlberg. (I know Mark’s been around forever, but I love that he hasn’t morphed into Botox Boy.) And now that he’s pushing 50 – and smokes like an effing chimney – we might as well add Brad Pitt to the banging bod / craggy mug pile.

When I go to the movies, which I do virtually every weekend, and watch the endless trailers for the upcoming action flicks, I get so energized. Immediately, I want to drop down on that sticky, soda pop-covered floor and start doing push-ups. Occasionally, I’m even pressed into service to watch one of those movies. And I can assure you, Daniel Craig in chaps is the only reason I was able to make it through Cowboys & Aliens.

They just look so….tough. And ready. Mentally and physically solid. Primed to kick your ass and hand it back to you on a silver platter.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about all this right now. Lie. I do know. My birthday is imminent, and I can’t help but do that annual soul-searching about my life and what I want it to look like in the upcoming years.

I’m thinking fit and strong might be a good place to start.

Subtract the sand and that's a stellar imititation of me.

At 5 a.m. today I was wide awake, completely stressed. (Where oh where did my blissed-out work-less summer go?) Of course it’s my own damn fault for checking email at that ungodly hour. But by 5:05 I was wired like a Christmas tree on your annoying neighbor’s front lawn.

So what did I do? I ran, natch. On the treadmill in the gym in our building, truck truck trucking along while some gorilla juicehead (Jersey Shore ref; look it up) next to me clickered through literally every sports show in the television universe.

With all the P90X-ing, I feel like I had such a great fitness start to 2011. It hurts like a mother-effer, and it takes hours to do, but when it comes to a well-rounded plan of attack, P90X has it going on. You’re hoisting heavy weights, you’re smacking your nose into the floor doing dive-bomber push-ups, you’re twisting like a pretzel busting yoga moves that are seriously beyond your skill-set. (Well, they’re beyond my skill-set. But I’m not exactly Yoga Girl.)

But upon glancing at my precious workout log – OMG, I am soooo OCD with that thing – I see that for the last four or five months, 99 percent of what I’ve been doing is running. Yes, there was tennis. And jesus, I love the tennis. But the tennis window is short, and my fitness needs are kind of never-ending.

That’s the thing about fitness – you gotta keep doing it. Year after year after year after year after year after…

Still, I simply must stop running so much. Yes, it’s good for stress. Actually, it’s fantastic for stress. But I should be lifting weights. Strength-training is incredibly good for women, conveying a list of benefits as long as the Mississippi.

Not to mention the superficiality aspect. And I’m all about the superficiality aspect. Speaking of which, how much am I loving the new issue of Off the Couch magazine? And how great is it that there is actually such a thing in this wacky old world of ours as a mag dubbed Off the Couch? I crack up about that, but the fitness makeovers contained within its pages are wicked inspiring.

Anyway, that’s my overshare of the day – me and my hamster-on-a-treadmill exercise scenario. Heading back to the Stress Factory now. Over and out.