Up in the Gym, Working on my Fitness - from Fergalicious

When I tell people that I'm a group fitness instructor, I know that they imagine a drill sergeant-esqe woman in too much spandex, barking orders with a whistle and stop watch.  Thanks for that Jillian Michaels.  So, I'm here to set the record straight.  I do not own a whistle or stop watch, but I should fess up to my spandex collection.

For the past 7 years, my career of choice has been to motivate and encourage people to reach their fitness goals all while cuing, instructing, counting music and viciously sweating. After going through a chubby phase in my mid-20's, a move to Houston meant that I didn't have to work full-time.  What was a girl like me to do?  A-type people don't sit around very well.  I had recently lost the extra pounds and found that I loved working out.  I got certified to teach mat pilates and after getting hired at a gym, it snowballed.  I got certified to teach kickbox, step, cycle and weights.  Still wasn't enough, so added on aqua fitness and then became a Group Exercise Coordinator, meaning I was responsible for the entire program (we offered 50 classes a week).  I would personally teach up to 12 classes a week.

Here's the big difference between what people think I do (whistle/stop watch) and what I really do (fun music and moves choreographed to fit the specific format).  I spend several hours each week at home, designing choreography for all of my classes.  Yes, even kickbox and cycle, I know what I'm going to do before I enter the group exercise room.  I make sure my music is the designated beats per minute (as outlined in my certifications).  I figure out how I'm going to build the choreography so that everyone in the class (all 20-35 attendees) can follow it.  Sure, the members in the front row won't have any problems, but how do I introduce a "jab, cross, duck, hook, roundhouse kick" to the lady in the back corner who just joined the gym?  This is all while being on beat with the music (8-count measure) and "on top of the phrase" an industry term meaning the combination of choreography starts on the 1 beat of the 32-count phrase.  Oh yeah, I'm also cuing one thing while my body is doing another.  I try to cue on the 5 beat, called the "cue spot".  Because the participants have to hear it, understand it, and act on it, so that they are ready for the next 1.  And all of this should be done effortlessly and seamlessly as to give the participants a feeling of accomplishment.  Clear as mud?

I also must be mindful of the participants' form and give reminders and demonstrate proper form as to make sure they do not hurt themselves (again, while still on beat and within the musical phrase).  I encourage members to try this or that to meet their goals, meaning I have to have a general understanding of this or that.  Outside of the gym, I try to stay knowledgeable about new trends, popular fads, changing recommendations from industry leaders and keep all of my certifications valid. 

I feel horrible for those members who took my first classes back in Houston.  I didn't really perfect my method for a couple of years (it takes A LOT of practice).  When we next moved to Denver, I had to bring my A-game to every class.  Those people were fitness maniacs and woe is the instructor who shows up unprepared or slightly winded due to the altitude.  I improved in a hurry because teaching 15 classes a week at 5 different gyms meant I always had to be "on".  I don't have the luxury to show up tired or hungry because an instructor has to give 110 percent to make sure that the members are at full intensity.  A cake walk it is not.

I thoroughly enjoy the challenges group fitness presents.  I will never call someone out.  Instead, I try to correct the member without ever putting them in the spotlight.  I try to constantly keep veteran members intrigued and make new folks feel like part of the group.  I research ways for those with joint problems to still practice the format that they enjoy.  I modify exercises and find new ways to do old things.

Some people confuse personal training (1-3  clients per instructor, not set to music or choreographed) with group fitness.  I hope next time you catch "Biggest Loser" and Jillian is standing on some unfortunate, overweight man, yelling at him to do "MORE!" that you realize that that is Hollywood's version of personal training and far from the reality of group fitness. 

So, now that you know, get out there!  Come try a class!  Let's sweat together!

I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy!

The title of this blog is borrowed from one of my favorite kids church song.  The next line is, "Down in my heart! Where? Down in my heart! Down in my heart to stay!"  I felt like belting it from the rafters during the early months of summer.  I was so full of happiness and contentment that it was practically oozing out.

Early in the summer, AnnaB came down with a virus - a little worse than a cold, but nothing too utterly horrible.  That is until the doctor put her on a steroid to clear everything up.  To make a long story short, I'm now a full-on believer in "roid rage" because my sweet little girl was downright mean. 

The cosmos aligned and baby girl was all better, off of the steroid and returned to her (mostly) angelic self.  We were able to set up a little weekly routine, which I adored.  A half-day of school for her on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I would teach my fitness classes.  There would also be duck pond day and grocery shopping day and pool day and "mommy and me" gymnastics day.  I kept us busy and that's the point really.  I like to be out and about and by association, so does baby girl.  We would visit family and friends some days too, filling our time with fun chats and activities.  The summertime carefree-ness that reminds me of being kid was palpable. On occasion, I would declare to anyone in earshot, "This is such a wonderful age!"  And I meant it. 

And then it happened.  Just a couple of weeks ago on the cusp of turning 18 months, out of the blue, baby girl suddenly sprouted her own opinion and started telling me, "no!" at most everything.  I didn't previously know it, but that happy, short-lived "honeymoon phase" had caught us right between baby-hood and toddler-hood.  She's a full-blown toddler now and although she's still game for the grocery store, she's not quite as excited.  She thinks she'd rather not wash her hands or have her diaper changed.  She'd prefer to play with this and not that.  Foods she previously devoured now make her gag.  The list of "no" is rapidly growing.

So, when I recently overhead a mom with a 16-month old declare, "Isn't this a wonderful age!" I could only smirk to myself.  I thought, "You better enjoy it while it lasts." You know, because I'm so experienced now and know what that poor first-time mom has yet to understand, it's fleeting.  Cherish each stage because you never know if the next one will be better or worse.  As for me, I'm staying positive that the "terrible twos" are overly hyped.  There's always hope, right?

Fourth of July!

At the zoo!

Playing with neighborhood friends!

Relaxing with juice!

Hollywood horse riding!

Climbing up the slide.  Such a daredevil!

San Francisco & Napa

So, a baby walks into a bar (or in our case, a winery) and the bartender (or in our case, the person who pours a very small amount of wine for a tasting) says, "I'm going to need to see her ID." Cue laugh track, forced smiles and too-loud chuckles.  But before we get to that point of the story, let's back up and talk about the couple of days that we (hubby, baby and yours truly) enjoyed in San Francisco.

Cheers!

I'm not sure how it's possible that we've traveled all around the world, to more than 15 countries, yet never had made it to California, but we had done just that.  To fix our predicament, we set our sights on northern California and arrived mid-May. A couple of days in San Francisco gave us time to explore the hills of Chinatown, the sea lions at Pier 39 and the shops of Union Square. 

The two hour time difference proved too much for baby girl to handle.  We were in our room each night by 5 p.m. PST (7 p.m. CST).  Thank goodness for the suite upgrade that the kind desk manager gave us.  We must have looked desperate.  Or maybe AnnaB was just that adorable.  Her early bedtime allowed us each to run along the Embarcadaro, San Fran's version of a boardwalk.  My run took me under the Bay Bridge all the way to the Giants' baseball park.  Later, we shared a delicious pizza while sitting cross-legged on the bed watching a Brady Bunch marathon.  Wild and crazy, I know.

Windy morning at Pier 39 in San Francisco

Sea lions at Pier 39

Carousel ride in San Fran

On our drive to Napa, we detoured twice.  Once to take in the stunning panoramic of the Bay Area at Vista Point.  With just a turn of the head, you can see Alcatraz, downtown San Fran and the Golden Gate Bridge.  We were lucky to be there on a uncharacteristically fog-free morning and the view was everything it promised to be.  Next, we stopped at Muir Woods to crane our necks at the towering redwood trees.  I wish I could have bottled up the incredible smell of evergreen, crisp morning air and pure nature.  AnnaB did not respect the "serenity and quiet" signs, so we hustled out as to not ruin the experience for others. 

View of the Golden Gate Bridge from Vista Point

Panoramic of baby girl in her stroller in the Muir Woods

As the big tourist season doesn't fire up until the end of May, Napa was a bit of a ghost town.  Fine by us.  On our first afternoon, we were the only guests at the Rutherford Ranch Vineyards.  Humbly, we fessed up to knowing very little about wine.  We were given a brief lesson on proper wine tasting etiquette.  Several sips later, we were feeling warm and fuzzy and beginning to understand the difference between a Sauvignon Blanc and a Pinot Gris.  Who knew that it would be an educational adventure?

Our first wine tasting!

 We ran each morning in the chilly Napa air, enjoying the sight of hot air balloons above the vineyards.  Postcard perfect.  A vacation is not complete without a little bicycle riding, and this time it was on adorable country roads from vineyard to vineyard.  Baby girl loved her sweet ride in the trailer behind her daddy's bike.  Lunch was delivered to us in a picnic basket and those sandwiches were thoroughly devoured as we lounged about on lush fescue.  I could get use to Napa life. 

Baby girl in her trailer

Daddy and his passenger

Love me some bike riding!

A little snack with daddy during a wine tasting

Beautiful vineyards!

Family pic - all smiles!

Relaxing and lunching in Napa

We had a wonderful time, but sometimes the best part of a vacation is getting back to your own bed.  Nothing feels better than a hot shower and your own pillow after 12 hours of traveling with a toddler.  Loved us some California and now that we're home, we can't wait for our next get-a-way.

Being a Grown Up

As kids, we're in such a rush to grow up.  To be an adult and do cool adult things sounds so fantastic, so hip.  But no one tells you (or maybe they did, and I wasn't listening) that being a grown up sucks.  There's no one else to defer major decisions to.  You can't call up your mom and say, "please make this major life decision for me."  Well, maybe some people can, but that's not how I was raised.  I am 30+ years old.  It's time to put on the big girl panties and make the life-altering decisions. 

And so it was over Easter weekend that the hubby and I had to decide what to do with our 10-year-old lab mix, Pete.  Without going into detail, dire circumstances made us come face to face with one of my worst nightmares. 

In August of 2003, Pete was a mangy-haired stray that wondered up to the Tulsa Zoo's entrance (my former employer).  He weighed only 70 lbs on what was supposed to be a 100 lb frame.  He was malnourished, dehydrated and rotten with ticks and fleas.  It made perfect sense to me to take him home.  Over the course of a month, he came back to life and thrived for the next 9 years.  He was great with our two girl dogs, but horrible with any other dogs, especially if he was on his leash.  It must have been the "mix" part of him (we always guessed Great Pyrenees) that made him uber-aggressive.  He had a bark that would rattle the glass and a vertical jump that nearly knocked down a stockade fence.  Most of the time, he was big marshmallow, lying on his bed, with his head hanging off onto the floor.  I loved that dog to bits and pieces.  The massive amounts of shedding and drooling and Cujo antics were not ideal, but he was my dog.  I woke up with him next to my bed every morning.  I fed him breakfast and dinner.  I walked him come hell or high water.  I picked up his poop and sprayed off the patio furniture that he routinely marked.  He wasn't a good dog, but he was mine, all white fur and wet nose and toward the end, bad hip and bad attitude.

The day we took him in was one of the worst days I've ever experienced.  Not to sound melodramatic, but he was an every day part of our family, and to suddenly not have him anymore was incredibly painful.  I know life will go on and it will go on happily.  I have so much to be thankful for.  But, when I stop to think about him, I'm very sad and I mourn.  I know that we made the right grown up decision, even though it sucked.  I wanted to write this blog about him, in part as therapy for me and also to honor his time in our family.  Here's to you, Pistol Pete.

I'm a Runner

When our monthly "Runner's World" magazine arrives, I eagerly turn to my favorite section, "I'm a Runner."  It's a one-page "soft" piece that features famous or notable people and what drives them to run.  Some admit to running to stay fit, others say it's to keep their sanity, but the majority, artists and creative types included, have no real answer.  It's just something that they do.  A part of their day that they simply can't skip.

I run for a different reason each time.  Some days it's what my training plan calls for.  Other days it's because the weather is beautiful and surely God would want me to take advantage of fresh air and sunshine.  Sometimes, there's no "reason" at all.  I just lace up my sneakers, blast my Top 40 pop music and set out.  Those are the best days.  I've never regretted a run.  I always regret not running.

I used to consider myself a jogger.  I'm not sure what warrants the label of "runner" but I've been doing it consistently and long enough now that I think I've earned the promotion.  I've raced countless 5k and 10k races, 11 half marathons and more training runs than I can count.  Like life, it's a process.  Some days are a cake walk, others are literally an uphill climb.

For a runner, the finish line of a big race is true exaltation.  Even if you've raced poorly, it is still an incredible feeling to know what your body has accomplished.  Your muscles pushed harder than you thought possible and propelled you forward footstep by footstep.  You had the mental fortitude to stick with it to the very end.  I don't race to win or to receive a medal.  I race for that feeling of connecting with my own power.  It's exhilarating.

I've also been that spectator at the finish line, cheering on a loved one, rooting them to finish strong.  I've made posters to silently chant, "You can do this!" To be in the crowd of well wishers is a feeling of community, of mutually outpouring support and love to those who have endured training and competition. Sometimes the best part is cheering on a complete stranger who looks like they need a little push to make it.

Having experienced all of this first hand is why the bombings at the Boston Marathon are so personal to me. I am that runner who was knocked off their feet by the explosion.  I am that runner who veered off course to take refuge in a store.  I am that spectator who stopped mid-chant to take cover.  I am that family member who couldn't get cell service to find out if my loved one was okay on the race course. I'm a runner and that was me.

How dare these people take something so innocent as a test of athleticism and fortitude and make it a display of hatred.  How dare they take the joy out of something so pure.

Oddly, in two weeks, I'm set to run the OKC Half Marathon, an event held yearly to honor the 168 people who died in the bombing of the OKC Murrah Federal Building in 1995, a domestic act of terrorism.  I learned a popular phrase while living in Baku, "inshallah," which means, "God willing." Locals used the saying with most everything.  "See you tomorrow" was answered with "Inshallah."  The reply to "Will you be here next week?" was "Inshallah." I find it poignant in today's world.  Will I run the half marathon as planned? Inshallah.

Turning a Corner

For me, the first 6 months of sweet Annabelle's life were quite isolating.  I was breast feeding and pumping and since babies eat every 3 hours at the beginning, I was always "tethered" to my child.  By the time I would feed her and change her, I would have little time to do much else before the whole cycle would begin again.  We were pretty much home-bound, like house cats, watching the world pass by our windows.

If we were forced to run an errand, I would have to lug around the car seat with her inside, because until she started sitting up on her own at 6 1/2 months, it was impossible to put her in the front part of a shopping cart or in a high chair at a restaurant.  Isolation was gripping me.  Sure, I took this time to absorb everything about my darling child.  We snuggled, we read books, we sang songs, we played, we learned to roll over and then learned to crawl.  I looked into her eyes and told her that I loved her a hundred times every day.  But still, I needed to return to civilization STAT and I mean for longer than an aerobics class at the YMCA.

And then one day, after she had mastered high chair sitting, we were sharing a banana.  A mashed up piece for baby, a normal piece for mom, and back and forth, all the way to the nub at the end.  We were just two girls, enjoying a snack together.  She was babbling, I was talking about what I was going to cook for dinner, when I realized that we had turned a corner.  She was becoming a companion, not just a lump of baby.

Around this time, a dear friend had told me that AnnaB and I were about to embark on some real adventures together.  We were about to start having fun.  Since then, we are no longer stranded on our island, we run errands with the best of 'em.  We've vacationed several times, we go to dinner on Friday nights, we take swim lessons and we do activities at the library.  We are two gals out on the town!

I look back at AnnaB's first year and it's bittersweet.  She's no longer a baby and while I have appreciation for that time of her life, I'm thrilled to be tackling new experiences together.  Her first birthday party was a success, with family and friends and cake, lots of cake! She loved it all.  And I'm loving it all too.

The progression of a "cake smash".... cute birthday outfit on...

Cute outfit off, first bite of cake...

Liking the cake...

On the floor, diaper only.  Loving the cake and laughing!

Birthday girl in the middle and her party guests, Harrison & Madelyn.

Doldrums

I've heard people say that they were born in the wrong era.  Maybe they thought they were better suited for a flapper dress of the roaring '20s.  Or maybe that they'd be better off in a Laura Ingalls Wilder book on the unsettled prairie.  Maybe they fantasize about the 1950's drive-in theater, poodle skirts and muscle cars.

Not me.  I was born in the correct era, the 1980's to be exact.  Everything about the timing is perfect for me - big hair bands, Top Gun, modern conveniences.  I'm a born and bred Okie.  I routinely sing our state song (and popular Broadway show tune), "Oklahoma!" at the top of my lungs.  I'm proud that my state is full of "the nicest people" and that we pulled together after the 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.  We are a strong, resilient group of folks.  Watch the nightly news during the springtime and you'll see that each report is a montage of tornado damage.  We rebuild, reconstruct and press on. My blood is a mix of Native Americans (probably Black Foot and Cherokee), Irish and English.  Like most Okies, I'm a mutt, which is humbling and character-building at the same time.  I like who I am, but these doldrums of winter (after the holidays and before spring blossoming) are the hardest, most depressing time of year.  I might have been born in the correct era, but definitely in the wrong geographical region.

We had the opportunity to briefly live in Denver and although I grew to dread the massive amounts of snow, at least I had a beautiful mountain range to look at or fun wintertime activities to keep me busy.  We literally had a white Christmas snuggled up in front of the fireplace, drinking hot toddies, and it was perfect, no complaining from me.  We were shoveling snow all the way through May, but something about the crisp, clear mountain air and spectacular views made up for the lack of warmth.

While in southern Florida a few weeks back, I felt like I shook off my persistent chill bumps and came alive.  It was the radiant sun, pleasantly mixed with humidity and blue skies that thawed my soul.   I'm a beach girl at heart and the Oklahoma winters, even mild ones, just about do me in. The never-ceasing wind, overcast days, with bitterly chilly nights just make me want to put my head under the covers and not come out until the temperate is at least 70 degrees outside.  Oklahoma in the winter resembles a barren wasteland.  If you were just passing through, you might consider never visiting again.  You have to catch it April - October to realize that it's not so bad, but I'm suppose to live in a 365-day warm environment.  I look better, am nicer and more energetic when the heat rises.  Everything about me could be improved if I moved down a few lines of latitude.  Some people enjoy having 4 distinct seasons.  Not me.  I want summer all year long.  I'm supposed to live in flip flops and sundresses with my hair bleached from the sun, pulled back into a ponytail.

But, like I said, we press on.  Each afternoon, we walk the dogs around the neighborhood (bundled up, of course) and I inspect every tree, every branch for a sign of a single bloom.  Just one is all it will take to get my hopes up that spring is around the corner.  I know it is.  It has to be!  I only have to make it through a few more weeks of the winter doldrums to feel a warm southern wind bringing everything back to life and perking me up, out of my winter blahs.

Baby girl on Christmas morning.  She's oblivious to the winter doldrums!

In warmer weather, Disney World!

Enjoying pineapple-flavored ice cream in Disney World.

Baby girl enjoying the warm evenings in Florida.
 

Watch me out grow my rugby bear!

Annabelle, 11 months old, February 1, 2013.

A New Year

I loooove to check things off of my to-do lists.  I loooove that sense of accomplishment of having a completed, marked-through, bullet-pointed list.  "Look what I've done today!" I want to yell from the roof tops.  One major problem with this lifestyle is that I find that I often "go through the motions" of life.  Shopping for Christmas presents, check.  Wrap Christmas presents, check.  Decide on menu for Christmas Eve get-together, check.  Buy said ingredients, check.  Have family over, smile for pictures, give big hugs, check.  I'm a continuous check, check, check.

Christmas Eve.  Check!

Annabelle and her New Year's Eve date, Harrison.

I was pleasantly surprised to have one of those days where I felt I was really living.  I accidentally forgot to "check."  The hubby, baby and I flew to Miami for a couple of days in the sunshine, followed by a half-marathon (for her) and a full marathon (for him) in Disney World (nothing says, "Happy 10 Year Anniversary" like a race!).

Annabelle and her daddy on the sands of the Atlantic.

It was our first day in Miami that I was check-less.  We awoke to a beautiful blue, sunny sky and 70 degree temperatures.  The splits on my fingers had healed overnight, thanks to the humidity, and my cheeks felt like they were glowing.  Breakfast was alfresco on a large veranda with a sea breeze and strong coffee.  We walked barefoot on the beach and watched Annabelle dip her toes for the first time in the Atlantic. Lunch was at Miami's South Beach area.  A lazy meal of excellent Cuban food while Annabelle waved to passer-bys from her high chair.  South Beach is a vibrant, techni-color world of freaks, geeks, snow birds, Europeans and a wild assortment of Latin folks.  We could have people-watched all afternoon.  It has an energy, a "buzz" that made my whole face grin.

An hour or so of beach time (baby didn't cooperate with my sunbathing agenda!) and then off to dinner at a little pizza joint one mile from our hotel.  "Let's walk it!" we decided.  Warm evening, easy chatter with soft baby gibberish to fill in any gaps.  A perfect day and not a single item was "checked".  I've got to put that on my list to do more often.

At South Beach!

Sign before the Disney half marathon at 4:30 in the morning!

Running by Cinderella's castle before dawn.

Finishing the race at Epcot just after sunrise.

Annabelle and her new Minnie Mouse!

Post-race party at Downtown Disney.

Watch me out grow my rugby bear!  Annabelle, 10 months old, Jan. 1, 2013.