Boot Camp is the new Blogging

Melinda got on me again tonight for not posting.  "I'm sorry," I said. "I just don't have anything good to say."

We're in our last week of boot camp, and that means I've got to make a plan quick for something to pick up next week.  She's got a gym membership and an unlimited guest pass, so I imagine we'll be heading that way.  I missed the window to no-join-fee membership at the YMCA, but I may suck it up and pay it and join anyhow.  It's the closest gym to our house, and there's a pool that's open from 5 a.m. 'til 10 p.m. each night.  It's not exactly cheap, but it's certainly not more than my health and fitness is worth.

Tonight, at boot camp, I flipped a 280 pound tractor tire, by myself.  I feel like the Queen of the Fucking World.  I'm Strong.  I can do things that I dread right up until the second I'm doing them, and then, once I'm in the thick of it, I'm just focused on getting it done.  I'm so fucking AWESOME!  At least, that's how I feel during each 10 second break, after 30 seconds of pushing myself as hard as I can.  When I've had too much, and I feel like I just can't do any more, I stop, and let myself take a break, and I immediately hear a voice in the back of my head saying, "Stop it, get going, get back in it, you can do this, don't be a pussy, you can do this, do one more rep, two more..."  and I get back in there and do another.  I make myself finish the set if they call time when I'm in the middle.

My body is changing.  I met my collar bones tonight for the first time in years.  I have muscles in my arms, and that fleshy part that hangs underneath is smaller and gets firmer when I flex.  My legs are more toned.  I bought dresses two weeks ago and the larges were too large - I bought mediums for the first time in I-can't-remember-when.  I still have a gut, and that'll only disappear with more work and time, but I can see the changes.  I'm still getting on the scale nearly every morning, but I've not lost a pound in weeks.  This is okay with me.  I've not changed my diet at all, unless we count moving in the wrong direction - pizza twice a week, ice cream in the freezer, cookies in the pantry - so the fact that I'm maintaining and still noticing positive changes makes me exceedingly happy. 

Jimi's been amazingly supportive of my new regiment.  The day I bought my dresses, Jimi bought me four new workout tanks, and some desperately-needed workout shorts and capris.  (I'd been working out the last few weeks wearing the same pair of yoga pants - I just washed them every other day.  Even Melinda noticed.)  I'm much cooler in my new gear, and the clingy tops really emphasize my hard-earned boob- and back-sweat marks, showing the world just how hard I've worked.  (And warning people not to stand down-wind.)

Melinda has been an amazing workout partner, and I'm so so SO glad she agreed to do this with me.  If it weren't for my obligation to her, I would've stopped going weeks ago - that's just how I am.  Even now, as much as I love it, I come up with a hundred excuses every boot-camp-day for why I shouldn't have to go that night - I always need to stay late at work, I would rather just go home and drink beer, I just don't want to because it's hard - but because Melinda is going to be there, and because she's counting on my ass to show up, I do everything I can to make it to class.  I WANT to do it, and I feel awesome after it's over, but 78% of the reason I sit through that traffic and force myself to show up is because I don't want to let Melinda down.  She's the best cheerleader, too - she high-fives and encourages our classmates, and jokes with the instructors, and tells me that I'm awesome when I'm ready to throw in the fucking towel.  She makes me want to try harder.  She works her ass off, too.  She pushes when she's had enough.  She always picks the heavier barbells and kettle bells and medicine balls, and when she can't do the assigned exercise any longer, she does squats or jumping jacks or whatever alternate she comes up with to keep her heart rate up and keep moving.  When we have a water break, she always hands me my bottle if she reached it first.  She's offered to share her towel when I've forgotten mine.  She always hugs me and tells me she loves me before we split off to our individual cars at the end of the night.  I love her too, and I'm so glad she's my friend.

There ya go, Disney.  I wrote the SHIT out of this blog.  It's because I'm strong.  ;)

Just another day in paradise.

Last night was the first night we walked past the room where they hold the 101 boot camp class and intentionally headed for the room where they teach the regular class.  A week ago one of our trainers told us we were ready to move up, but regular class seemed so much more intimidating.  For one, those people actually look fit, whereas the 101 class is filled with people like us - puffy in the middle, new to exercise, each of us secretly hoping we'll lose weight without having to work too hard because, dammit, we showed up to class and that should really count for something.  (Maybe that last part is just me.)  I won't lie, I was also intimidated by the fact that they make the regular class run up this big-ass grassy knoll on the side of the building, and that shit is not fun.

But the 101 class isn't challenging enough anymore- 20 seconds of exercise, then 20 seconds of rest - I need more than that.  So we followed the fit people to the glass room, and there, laid out before us, was a circuit of shit we've never seen or done before.  Turns out, it was the trainer's last class, and he wanted to torture us have us work out with his favorite exercises.  He's graduated from college and is moving off into the world (Alabama), and this was his last hurrah.  I'm so glad we showed up for this.  (/sarcasm)  Did I mention this guy was a college-level swimmer and a professional trainer?  Fuck me.  Things like "rope slam" and "super jacks" and "burpee jacks"  (whomever invented burpees is an asshole).  As the trainer described each station, Melinda glared at me.  "It's not too late to go to the other class, you know," she said.  "Girl, we got this," I replied, lying through my teeth.

We did have it, though.  It was hard as hell and my shirt and bra were soaked through with sweat when we were finished, but we totally had that workout.  One minute on, twenty seconds of rest, then switch - much more challenging.  I left feeling like jello, all rubbery and weak and flushed and feeling like the fucking champion of the world because did I mention burpee jacks? 

I got home and Jimi and I spent some quality time hanging out on the front porch, talking about work and working out and trying to figure out which of the 20 things going on this weekend we're going to be able to attend.  I made smoothies and cereal for dinner. 

and then my ex-husband sent me a friend request on facebook. 

My heartbeat quickened, but in an "oh shit I've been caught and I'm going to be in trouble" sort of way, which makes no sense at all.  I tried to figure out why I was reacting the way I was, but I couldn't find an explanation for why my heart felt like it was trying to escape my chest, and I couldn't believe Jimi couldn't hear it.  My hands started to shake as I clicked on his profile and gave it a scan.  Yep, same guy.  I'll be damned.  I accepted his friend request, but I won't lie and pretend I didn't go to my own page first, to get a gander at what he'll see, what impression he'll get, what picture my facebook page paints of my life.  Fortunately, I'm pretty awesome, so I was all "sure, come on in, check it out, see what I've been up to for the last 6 years".  (You can say all that by accepting a friend request, did ya know?)  I mean, if I'd been so inclined and sent the request instead, I'd hope he'd give me the courtesy, I guess.  I'm just surprised, caught off guard - I sort of felt, for a moment, as if something bad was intruding on something good - past onto present, sad onto happy. 

It's just that I don't think about that life much anymore these days.  There were good times, sure, but I was mostly sad and drunk and alone during our marriage, and he sort of threw me away like I was yesterday's trash rather than the woman he'd chosen as his wife.  Typing that, I don't need to delve any further into this to figure out why I reacted the way I did last night.  Isn't that enough of a reason? 

I hugged Jimi tight before I went to bed - I thanked him for loving me, and for making this life with me.  I'm so very grateful for him. 

Addy Rose

Stacy and Jessie and Addy Rose joined us for the evening.  Oh, that little girl just melts my heart. 

I watch Stacy with her, and I'm just in awe - she seems to know exactly what to do at each moment, how to turn or twist or bounce, just the second Addy needs to be fed or changed or burped. 

It just blows my mind that she made a whole another person. 

And that baby's smile?  It has the warmth of a thousand suns.  So full of joy and newness.

I'm totally in love.

Kentucky Derby 2012

As I've said a few times, I went to the Kentucky Derby this year.

It was the second time I've been - bossman gave me tickets 2 or 3 years ago - 

but this was my first Derby with my Daddy.

And it was my first trip to the infamous Infield.

This town gets down during Derby time.

We have a huge fireworks show to kick off two weeks of partying, 

and by the time Derby day itself, the first Saturday in May, rolls around,

the locals are filling up my Facebook feed with things like,

"One more day and this town can get back to normal."

 I like the partying, though.

Even if I rarely participate in any of it,

I love the atmosphere of excitement and fun, 

and I love that people from all over come to our city

and see all the awesome we have to offer.

Daddy says his favorite thing about the Derby 

is all the beautiful women in pretty dresses.

The men dress pretty well, too.

The neighborhood near Churchill Downs isn't high dollar real estate;

in fact, it's maybe a little on the rough side.

But that neighborhood rocks out Derby week.

Every house has someone standing in front with a sign that says 

"PARK HERE! $10"

Or $20, or $40, depending on how close you are to the track.

The 'hood becomes a block party -

everyone is grilling out 

(and entrepreneurs are selling hot dogs and burgers and bottled water),

music is blaring,

rednecks and hoodrats in chinos and polos driving golf carts and offering rides to the pretty rich folk who'd never intentionally come into this neighborhood after dark or during off-season.

I should've taken pictures of that.  THAT was the real Derby.

Oh well, these mostly-what-you'd-expect shots will have to do.  

Daddy met us at the house early Saturday morning, 

just as I pulled a hashbrown casserole from the oven.

I made smoothies, too.

We found close parking for $10, 

then caught a golf cart to the Infield gate.

(I almost left our admission tickets in the car.  

Having to go back for them would've been the ultimate walk of shame.)

In our own golf cart chariot.  An excellent shot of the back of my Daddy's head.

Approaching the Infield entrance gate.  At this point, everything's still fine.  No indication that anything is amiss.

Wait a second.

Wait just a minute.  Is that the line?

Dude in the middle there?  Preachin' 'bout Jesus.

At this point, Daddy's about to lose his shit.

He's doing that helpless hands-in-the-air shrug he does when he's frustrated,

and gesturing toward the crowd with a look of shocked disbelief.

"It'll take HOURS to get through this."

The line wasn't moving.  

At all.

See, this is the only entrance through which you can take chairs and coolers and the like.

Everything - EVERYTHING - has to be searched 

to make sure you're not trying to blow the place up

or drink without paying the track tax.

So I said, "Fuck this.  We don't have chairs or a cooler.  Let's walk around to the main entrance."

So we did.

No lines here!  Just walk right up, walk right in.

Security "checked" my purse - 

I held it open and he stuck a wooden skewer into it for one swipe and waved me on.

I really should've packed a flask.

These guys were my first favorites of the day.
I don't know it for a fact,
but I'd bet $100 that they had those suits tailor made.
They fit them like gloves.
One day, I too will be awesome enough to wear something outrageous in public.

Jefferson County's Smoking Ban applies to all bars and restaurants and public venues in the county...
Except Churchill Downs.  Smoke it up, Ladies and Gents!

You get to the infield through a giant tunnel that runs under the racetrack.
I asked Daddy,
"This isn't going to be like that tunnel scene in The Stand, is it?"

Notice how they're all facing the same direction? 
They're not facing the racetrack.

These people too.  They've positioned themselves where they are very purposefully.

So they can see the board, of course.

That's the track, through those fences and girls there.

Hey look!  I saw a horse! 
Lots of locals go to Derby and never see a horse, so I felt I was doing pretty good.

Derby is like camping, but with less fire and booze. 
There's still booze,
but at $9 for a beer or mint julep, there's not booze like you'd see around a campfire.

Daddy's friends brought their transistor radio to listen to the commentary.
Blast from the past!

Place your bets, folks!

It was hot and humid and expensive out there, so we only planned to stay for a few hours, beat the rush getting out, and be home in time to watch the big race on TV.

This was the crowd 4 hours before the main race, 

when I was trying to place my Derby bets before we headed home.

There are no chairs at the Derby unless you bring your own. 
Plan to pull up a piece of pavement.

We got lost in the college party section on our way out.
I smelled dope out there!

This was 4 hours after we'd by-passed the Infield entrance gate.
These people are just coming in from that line. 

And we all lived happily ever after.  

(And I won $52.60 when 2 of the 7 horses I bet placed first and second in the actual Kentucky Derby.

First time I've ever cashed a winning ticket.  YAY!)

Okay then

I love getting good, honest feedback.  Thanks, Ladies!  So I'm in transition - out with the old "new" and in with a "new" new.  And the blogger editor thingy is not very cooperative right this moment, so we're going to go with a "plain jane" look for a bit, 'twould appear.  I wish I was cool and could do design work here.  But I'm not.  So I can't.  *sigh*

I was supposed to come home and mow the lawn.  I was looking forward to it, even!  But then...well, I'm not going to tell you why i'm not mowing the yard right now because i hate it when chicks blog about their menstrual cycles, but let's just say I'm not out there mowing the lawn and it's not in my future tonight.  Which is a lame-ass excuse, but it's mine, and there ya have it. 

Jimi was s'posed to stop on his way home and get Frontline for the cat.  He remembered to stop, he even remembered the litter - but when he got home and parked and pulled the bag from the truck, he realized the Frontline he'd purchased is the sort for the dog, not the cat.  D'oh!  Poor guy, he was so mad.  Fortunately, Feeder's Supply will exchange it without hassle - well, other than the hassle of having to make another trip.

Those are all the words I've got for now.  Happy Hump Day!