Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

fitness

not drowning, probably

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Yesterday I did not drown.

The vast majority of people in the world can say this on the vast majority of days. The group of people on any given day who did drown the day before and are still talking about it is relatively slim.

Yet, of that vast majority, not all of them are doing their first significant swimming since half a life and a third of their body weight ago. That was what I was doing yesterday morning at the absurd hour of 5:30 a.m. in our neighborhood YMCA.

I’ve been swearing for four years now that I would start swimming before work. It’s been an awful lot of swearing. E is quite tired of it. I swore when we first moved, as if the suburbs would suddenly make me a fitness nut out of sheer boredom of not living in the city anymore. I swore when I was getting lumpy the next year, swore again when I got super-fit by practicing yoga three times a week, and swore some more when I joined a start-up last year and my gym time went down to nil.

It took a baby to get me to stop my swearing. I could slip my own vows for four years running, but so help me that baby was learning to swim as soon as she was old enough for her first lesson. I had seen all of the adorable photos from my friends and their swimming babies, and both of my parents still have amusing stories to tell about my baby swimming endeavors – and, honestly, there are very few stories they both tell the same way that do not involve Thriller or my aunt arriving to babysit me bearing a gallon jug of white wine.

Thus, we found a scruffy me and a chubby baby sitting at the counter at our local YMCA four weeks ago, waiting to get my photo taken. The swearing was over. Now we were doing.

Except, baby swim lessons – they’re not the most strenuous activity in the world. It’s not as though you are freestyling with them strapped to your back like a laser on a shark, you know? You are just pushing them through the water in the shallow end where you can stand. I sneak a little treading in at the end of every lesson, but it’s not exactly leaving me breathless.

Ah, but now I have a precious membership card in my wallet, which means half of the swear has been sworn. Now I just needed to get my body into the pool sans baby. So, for the those intervening four weeks I tried to wake up early enough to head to the pool before work.

Yeah – it just wasn’t happening. I am a motivated individual, but when you are juggling baby and the entire account book of a business and a cover band and god knows what else I claim to be doing with my time, the difference between waking up at 5:15 and 6:15 is a BIG DEAL. You can go to sleep in your swim trunks thinking soggy motivational thoughts and set every alarm, but when it comes down to it you are going to choose the extra hour of shut-eye every damn time. You being me, in this example.

That routine played out yesterday morning at 5:15 a.m. as it had for the past 29 days. I shut off the alarm and was about to turn over and go back to sleep. Then, I thought to myself, “What if your swimming is just as important to EV6’s lifetime cumulative happiness as her swimming? Even if it just makes you happier so you enjoy your time with her more. Then would it get you out bed?”

I laid on my back for a minute thinking about that.

Five minutes later I was in the car wearing swim trunks.

Nine minutes later I was halfway through an Olympic-length lap of freestyle thinking a few particular thoughts:

(a) I have not swum for more than a consecutive minute since I was fifteen.

(b) Even at fifteen, I don’t know if I ever attempted laps in an Olympic-sized pool.

(c) 5:30 a.m. is perhaps a bit too early to submerge one’s entire face in water and subsequently coordinate side-breathing.

(d) Wow, there’s like half a pool left in front of me.

(e) Come to think of it, I’ve always been pretty slow at freestyle.

(f) This staying afloat while moving forward thing (or, visa versa) is pretty strenuous compared to how hard it was when I was fifteen and weighed 75% of what I do right now without a single ounce of fat on my body.

(g) But fat is buoyant, right?

(h) Oh my lord, there is still more pool in front of me.

After my first lap and a brief bout of hyperventilation while clinging to the pool side, the lifeguard suddenly emerged from his little office to sit in a chair that happened to be directly facing my lane. My fellow swimmers had received no such treatment. Despite my frequent concerns that I would arrive early to find an entire and entirely-lithe high school swim team dominating the lanes, I was swimming with one middle age woman who also (wisely) was not putting her face in the water and an older gentleman who swam a slow but unceasing freestyle the entire time I was at the pool without stopping once.

The lifeguard continued to stare directly at me as I clumsily completed another lap, as if he was considering administering the swim test they give to tweens and granting me a neon arm band. I probably would have helped my case if I didn’t dip precipitously under the water about two thirds of the way through every lap.

But let me remind you of something about me. It might take me a long time to do something. I might have a lot of concerns about the critical path and the project management triangle. But when I am in the pool getting lapped by the dry-faced lady and the never-ending senior paddler with a lifeguard judging me, you had better believe I will find a way to eek out each successive lap just like I made it through my first hot yoga class while being convinced I was dying the entire time.

So I swam. I did some modified freestyle. I did a side-stroke. About halfway through I remembered that I was actually not terrible at backstroke, and switched to that. Each lap was still a herculean struggle, but moving my body through the water stopped seeming like such an absurd idea during my wall-clinging breaks.

My half-hour of morning pool time done, I emerged triumphantly from the pool – only to very nearly collapse into a heap when gravity took over and I realized I felt like someone had been beating me with a sack of oranges. I gingerly noodled over to a bench and sank down, trying to affect an air of contemplation and self-evaluation so the guard would not come over and check me for delayed drowning.

Five minutes later I rose and limped to my car so I could go wake up a baby and tell her about how her father just went swimming.

 

10 Tips to Make Your Color Run Awesome(r)

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Lilly white at the start line with my run-buddy @AllieHarch!

Today I ran Philadelphia’s inaugural Color Run with my friend and fellow blogger @AllieHarch. It was my first 5k, and the biggest Color Run in the world to date!

The Color Run is an awesome 5k that makes running fun and accessible for athletes of all levels – even someone like me who hates running. While a wave of “tough” runs add obstacles and challenges to their courses, The Color Run marks your route with clouds of primary and secondary colors and celebrates your finish with the best rainbow-colored 8am dance party you’ll ever attend.

Despite almost backing out at 10pm last night, I am so very happy I followed through. I feel awesome from the exercise, and covered my smile quotient for the week. The thrill that went through the crowd as we approached either color zone was incredible, and the party at the end was actually fun!

Sound like your kind of event? There are Color Runs all over the world! If you decide do do one, here are some tips for your from someone who just ran his first race (and who also happens to work to produce one of the largest races in the country).

Our friend @mayasalloum after her rainbow partying at the finish.

1. Be prepared.

If you drive to the run, pack a fresh change of clothes (sneakers, too!) and two sheets or towels – one to lay your shirt on to dry, and another for the seat of your car.

If you don’t drive, at least pack a small gym towel or kerchief in your running sack.

For the race itself, keep your phone and keys in a plastic bag. Even if they’re stain-proof, you don’t want the paste of sweat and color-dust on them.

2. Do the (first) wave.

Post-Run, but Pre-Party

If you want to make the most of the post-race party and the rest of your day, line up early.

We lined up at 6:30am and we were in the first wave to cross the start line at 7am, with no delay. Waves were still releasing when we finished! That gave us plenty of time to take photos and party without it being too crowded.

3. Run, don’t race.

As 5k events go, I did not get the impression that this was one where you should strive to set a personal record. For one, you’ll miss out on getting blasted with color on the course! While I certainly ran enough to make it challenging, the people having the most fun were with groups of friends laughing with each other and meeting new people.

Front row at the party!

4. Avert your eyes.

Well, maybe not avert, but cover them up with a cool pair of shades! Judging from the artillery fire of pinks and purples on my glasses, they were the right way to go. You’ll be squinting and wincing constantly without them.

5. Breath easy.

I found it a little challenging to breath in the 30 seconds after each color zone – it’s as if a bag of colorful flour exploded in your kitchen!

If you think this will bother you, just buy a cheap, disposable dust mask at the drug store to wear in the color zones until the dust clears. Don’t worry, there is plenty of clear space between them to breath freely.

6. Colors run, wet sets.

Sweating through my shirt seemed to set the colors, and encouraged them to bleed into each other, creating a muddy mess where orange met green. Similarly, my sweatiest body parts attracted/absorbed the most color.

If you really want a distinctly colored splatter on your commemorative shirt, wear a tank top beneath your shirt to slow down the colors from running.

Allie and I looking ridiculous, mid-party.

7. Use your head(band).

Going along with that last one, you really don’t want sweat on your face and in your eyes at this event. Make use of the freebie sweatband and/or wear a bandanna.

8. A colorful party.

You can only accumulate so much color on the course itself. If you really want to become a rainbow you need to locate the party at your finish line, where they continue to dispense color packets like Pez while everyone dances. Even if you’re not up for a dance party, the festive environment is unique and very photogenic.

9. The brush-off.

Resist the urge to rinse off your face at the finish or advance immediately to scrubbing when you return home. Your first pass at your face should be a gentle brushing off using facial tissue or a makeup pad. Then, try dabs of olive oil rather than water.

I have sensitive skin and huge, hungry pores, but this tactic kept my face free and clear post-race.

Rainbow haze.

10. Color within the lines.

If you rely on your face, hands, or other bare body part for work or play, consider protecting them from the end-of-run color. Despite dedicated scrubbing of my hands, I’m afraid to play guitar or read graphic novels – my two big Sunday pastimes!

In retrospect, I might have appreciated a set of rubber gloves to wear at the party.

abdominal revolt

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This morning my body is in revolt, and it’s all Jillian Michaels’ fault.

I have never been an exerciser. High school gym class jumping jacks and 8-minute buns? Sure. But cardio? Circuit training? No sir.

At the old house I at least had walking. We were three miles on the dot from my office, and as soon as Spring was sprung I’d power walk at least one way a few times a week. If I got on a fitness kick or SEPTA went on strike I’d do the entire six in one day, sometimes pretending to jog for a few minutes in the middle.

I hate jogging.

The new house is seven miles away from the office, and I don’t forsee myself making that walk quite as frequently. Or, you know, ever. I’m in a nice neighborhood for jogging, but I really, really hate jogging.

So now I’m an exerciser. Out of necessity, really, because I don’t think guitar playing counts as enough cardio for me to maintain my boyish figure. I naively thought that – with the natural reflexes of a trained assassin and the freakish untrained flexibility of Spider-Man – I would be able to jump right into P90X.

Yeah, about that. My co-workers told me that there was a pre-test on the P90X website to gauge your level of fitness. I took it.

I failed the pre-test, y’all. That’s the first time I’ve failed a test since AP Calculus. Apparently my untrained reflexes and flexibility were nill, and god help me if I had to elevate my heart rate. My physical skill amounted to being able to walk any distance at a constant speed of 5MPH, and that was it.

Basically, I had the physical fitness of a pack mule.

Now I am exercising several times a week with Jillian Michaels, which is a whole post unto itself. Let’s just say I had no idea who she was, but I liked the sound of getting “shredded.” Thanks to Jillian’s undying support and fierce, carnivorous smile that tells me that she preys on the weak once the cameras stop rolling, my aspirations have grown beyond managing the size of my supple bottom to perhaps one day being worthy and able enough to make it through the P90X gauntlet. And what if… what if I had actual abs? Like, abdominal muscles you can see through my skin. You know, like Brad Pitt in Fight Club?

I was repeating that abdominal mantra to get to sleep last night, because my abs were trying to declare their secession from the rest of my body. I did my longest Jillian workout DVD yesterday, and about halfway through my abdominal section decided it had enough of the circuit training, the added resistance, and being a “strong core” for my legs and arms.

My “powering through” the rest of the workout only worsened the tensions between my abs and I. Despite ample stretching, an hour later I felt like Jillian Michaels was walking up to me and kicking me in the stomach about once every twenty seconds.

I described my agony to E, seeking comfort. “Is this what cramps are like,” I moaned pathetically?

That was a tactical error.

She scoffed. “Like having cramps?! Are you curled up in a ball on the ground, crying? Does it feel like something is trying to tear itself out of your stomach for days on end?”

“Um…” I considered bringing up the whole abdominal secession issue, but it seemed imprudent.

“Then, no, it is not like cramps.”

I went to sleep, abs still throbbing with phantom Jillian kicks, on the back of a new mantra:

“No, it is not like cramps.”

The More You Know (featuring Tina Fey)

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Things I have learned about myself in the past 24 hours:

  1. Being able to walk six miles in 72 minutes has no bearing on being to run at all for any length of time.
  2. Every jog must begin with the theme from Buffy the Vampire Slayer or “Hypnotize” by Notorious BIG.
  3. Mid-jog rallies should be set to “Build Me Up Buttercup” for maximum effectiveness.
  4. I have a LONG way to go before I’m ready for that triathlon I claim to be doing in August.
  5. My hair is awesome.
  6. Wait, I knew that one already.
  7. Oh, here’s a new one:

    I will unleash the most primal, gut-wrenching, OMG-it’s-the-Beatles! scream if Tina Fey suddenly appears in the same room as me.

    Conan & Tina backstage @ The Tower, swiped from Conan’s blog.

    Usually I am pretty cautious about my voice at shows, using only my particular (and well-supported) soprano wail for cheering purposes. However, last night when Conan O’Brien welcomed Tina Fey onto the stage at the Tower Theatre (making her entrance performing the cheer of what will be my neighborhood high school in eight short days, no less) I completely lost my mind.

    And my voice. I can’t especially talk right now.

    Allow me to repeat: I was in the same room as Tina Fey. TINA FEY.

    (And let the record show that my crush on Tina Fey predates 30 Rock ENTIRELY. I have been in love with her since her first SNL “Weekend Update.” Ask Erika.)

In other news, I have to buy one of those armband iPod holders, because my underwear is not a proper home for my music collection.

I am Peter’s beleaguered abdomen.

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I have a whole litany of things to say about Lyndzapalooza, Arcati Crisis, and Amy’s new section of the newspaper, but today I’d like to keep the attention on my abdominal section.

Separate from my (now infamous) teenage anorexia, I was also a sit-up addict. I don’t know why – I wasn’t especially interested in any other sort of fitness. In fact, I wasn’t even seeking a six-, four-, or two-pack. I just wanted tone.

I think part of the reasoning was, “food goes to the stomach, so abuse the stomach.” Also, I think one time I saw an anorexic girl on Oprah talk about doing 300 sit-ups a day and thought, Hey, that sounds way better than bulimia as a convenient companion to my anorexia.

Seriously. Fun times.

In any event, I left both the anorexia and the sit-ups by the wayside in college when I discovered things like all-you-can-eat cafeteria mac’n’cheese.

Fast forward a decade past my multi-hundred sit-up prime and my entire abdomen is a joke. And, not a laughing-with-it joke, either.

No, they are definitely to be laughed at.

When fiancee introduced a simple, nightly crunch regimen to get into absolutely drool-worthy shape for her trip to Australia I simply watched – sometimes while eating ice cream – because my abs, they are no longer. Even a standard set of crunches gets me huffing and puffing, and that doesn’t even get into the pure horror of any sort of side crunch that attacks the love-handle area.

A bit insulting, perhaps, that my future wife is in tip-topper shape than me with barely any effort, but it’s not really injuring my pride. After all, it’s not as though I’m spilling out of my clothes here – I’m just weak in the mid-section. I still eat better than ninety percent of the population of America. I still walk three miles or more a day from spring to fall. I just don’t cause her whiplash when I walk by with my shirt off.

However, what did add insult to injury was Elise’s younger brother.

He’s already a better singer and actor than I was at his age, which I can at least rationalize as due to his vastly superior genetics (I mean, we are talking about Elise’s brother, here). Yet, on top of that last year he out-of-the-blue started working out daily.

I was skeptical. I made all sorts of resolutions in high school, but the only two I actually stuck with were playing guitar and try to subsist solely on water and Altoids.

For a while all he had to show for it was endurance for the boredom of jogging and an altogether terrifying skill at Dance Dance Revolution. Now he has actual muscles! Abs, pecs – you name it. And, not just while impressively flexing – he has muscles even while at rest!

When I played DDR in front of him over Christmas I felt like a cow skipping rope. Oh, and did I mention that their father runs marathons, and that when he deigned to run my company’s ten mile race last year he posted the best time of everyone I know? And her sister, the non-fitness-nut, is currently serving out the remainder of her Fulbright Scholarship teaching English. In Taiwan.

I’ll be a legally bound part of this family in a scant nine months, and the peer pressure is starting to mount. To date I’ve skated by on the account of being an academic-wunderkind and a singer-songwriter. Then I had a few months of grace on the “wow, that’s a nice hunk of diamonds you bought for my sister/daughter.”

I’m going to have to step up my over-achievement, lest I become permanently tagged as the fat, lazy, dumb member of their family. (And, theirs is a beauty contest that I am never destined to win (unless I plan several thousands of dollars of plastic surgery (and this is not a post about my need to compete with my own mother))).

My grad school indecision is about to continue into it’s fourth year, so I don’t see a Fullbright in my immediate future, and – let’s face it – I’m not planning on running anywhere anytime soon. (Being the longest-running blog in Philadelphia has so far won me no respect.)

My most realistic aim in this impending crash-course in sibling (and parental) rivalry is somewhere between the fitness levels of my fiancee and her brother – more than a nightly crunch routine, but less than a military-like regimen that causes high school girls to forget how to breathe.

Really, I’d be happy with enough to get Elise to gawk at me when I walk around the house naked, which rises in frequency as the weather improves.