Now I Know Better

I have been going to a different fitness center. I changed memberships about a week ago. It did not occur to me at the time, but when I changed fitness centers I also changed workout equipment. You might think changing equipment would be insignificant since I am still primarily using exercise bicycles and ellipticals. I would have thought it pretty insignificant too. Now I know better.

A few days ago, my first day at this new fitness center, I did a little uphill walking on a treadmill, and then about a half hour on a recumbent bicycle. The recumbent bicycle felt a little different than the recumbent bicycle at my old fitness center. I noticed that the two bicycles had different brand names. But I got used to the new one in a few minutes.

Late yesterday afternoon I visited the fitness center and decided to use an elliptical. Unlike the ellipticals from my old fitness center, these ellipticals have arm exercisers. The machine mimicks cross country skiing as opposed to my old fitness center’s machines which mimicked running with heavy shoes. I was on the elliptical for about a half hour. The end result; today my arms are in misery. Both of my forearms are sore, and my upper arms are killing me.

I had a feeling I was in trouble last night when my arms felt unusually achy, but I had no idea what was in store for me this morning. When I first got out of bed I could barely lift my robe because my right arm hurt so much. I decided to save myself some pain and not bother putting my arms through the sleeves and just wear it over my shoulders. When I could barely lift a spoon full of cereal to my mouth, I knew I was going to call off work. I suppose it was only fair that bringing the phone up to my ear was pure agony. 

It is now about ten hours later and things seem a little better… a little better, and that’s largely due to 400 mg of ibuprofen. I am still unwilling to fix my hair, but I am now able to slide my arms into a blouse without it feeling like a near-death experience. I am currently resting my arms on the edge of a desk as I write this blog entry. It is only mildly uncomfortable. And to think; all this because I'm trying to stay physically fit.         

Mom and I Talk About Men

I was talking to my mother earlier today. We got to talking about men. I told her that despite some unfortunate events of the past few weeks, I have come to one conclusion; my overall opinion of men is a positive one. Not all women will say that. There have been men who have hurt me. Others have disappointed me. But men have done more positive things for me than negative things, and probably by a significant margin. My only long-term love affair ended after several years but I still have a positive opinion of both the guy, and that time we spent together. Chalk one up for men.

Marty, my current guy, is both romantic and funny. Yesterday we were watching TV at my apartment. I was standing, casually watching the TV not far from where he was seated, as I was waiting for the microwave popcorn to finish popping in the kitchen. Marty reached out to playfully grab my bottom but I was about a foot out of reach. He calmly said, “Hey Spec (his nickname for me), could you move this way a step. I want to grab some.” Pure, adorable silliness. Of course I complied. How could I not comply with such an absurd request? Not only is Marty romantic and funny, but he listens to me and cares about what I think. Chalk a second one up for men.

And of course there’s my father. He has lived a life portions of which would probably terrify me. But he has a strong persona. He has steadfastly provided best he could for my mother and me. When I was younger I consider him both my protector and my guide. I still consider him something of a lifeline, there when I need him. Chalk yet another up for men.

Oddly, I feel more comfortable when in the company of women, but I feel more alive when in the company of men. One factor behind that analysis is some vague sexual undercurrent I feel when with men. It makes me feel uncomfortable, but in an energetic sort of way.

Maybe when I am much older my opinion will change. My skin will become wrinkled, my hair will be gray, and men will look at me differently. At that point I may not have the same impression of men that I do now. It’s possible, but I really kind of doubt it. My mother is almost 60 years old. Today she said, “I can’t complain. Men have given me a pleasant peaceful life.” She then paused, giggled and added, “Well, not that peaceful.” Mom, I know exactly what you mean.           

The High Cost Of Chivalry

I love to have my hair played with. I go to a hair salon partly because I know someone is going to be gently rubbing my scalp and brushing my hair. It’s just sooo soothing. Last night during a Boston Bruins first intermission, I asked Marty to brush my hair. He smiled and jovially proclaimed to be an expert hair brusher. I quickly, excitedly, went for my brush.

As soon as I sat on the floor in front of Marty and he began tenderly brushing my hair, I knew that it could lead to something even more sensual, more amorous. And then when he began softly running the fingers of his other hand through my hair, I thought sure that it was going to evolve into something erotic. But it didn’t. After eight or ten minutes of an absolutely heavenly hair brushing, Marty handed me my hairbrush, I climbed back up onto the sofa, and gave him a thank you kiss. We then went back to watching the Bruins on TV.

I think a month ago the same circumstances would have quickly fostered more sensual activity, assuming that a month ago I would have been forward enough to ask Marty for a hair brushing. But yesterday that did not happen… well, not at first. It wasn't the hair brushing that did it. It was more the fact that Marty was so wonderfully obliging when I asked him. I sat there through the 2^nd period of the hockey game curled up alongside Marty, with the hairbrush on my lap. Now and then I would glance down to it, and every time I did I would think of how I had asked Marty to brush my hair and how he had cheerfully obliged me and used that hairbrush to give me a few minutes of bliss.  

In a strange sort of way it was not the hair brushing that turned me on, in a kind of delaying action it was Marty happily indulging me that turned me on. The poor guy was asked to indulge me one more time later last night. I won’t tell you what that entailed; I’ll just say that we did not see the 3^rd period of the hockey game.             

Ordinary Living

I have just read a few of the older entries into this idiotic blog, and one thing seems painfully clear; I lead an ordinary life. I have the urge to call it humdrum, but I’ll stick with ordinary. I’ve always considered myself a little bit quirky, but my life is pretty typical. I’m reminded of a girlfriend I knew in high school who decided she should write her memoirs only to discover that she was 18 years old and had no memoirs.

I’ll bet there are 10,000 personal blogs on the internet that are pretty much exactly like mine. I try to make mine sound exciting, but it’s really just regular, everyday stuff. Who in their right mind would care about one of my avian sightings on a bird watching trip, or my past crushes on the opposite sex, or my accidentally hitting a squirrel with my car? There are a lot of exciting activities I can think of but the trouble is; I don’t want to do them. For example; I do not want to ski. It’s the fear of injury and even death that makes me avoid ski slopes.

In fact, all sports are out of the question. I stink at every sport I have ever tried. I’m so uncoordinated I can barely ride a bike. The only thing that would make my participation in sports exciting is the tantrums I would throw from the unmitigated frustration.

Most of the exciting activities I would want to do are activities that take a lot of money. I might like to travel the world, but who would foot the bill? But wouldn’t it be great; a blog entry from Hawaii, then another a few days later from Himeji, Japan, and yet a third blog entry the following week from Wellington, New Zealand? I could write in my blog that the water actually spins down the drain backwards south of the Equator. Water swirling down a drain; now that’s the making of an exciting blog. 

Rage, But Tragedy Avoided

I think I'm able to write about this now. I wasn't ready yesterday when the whole sad thing took place. I was so angry last night that I told Marty he'd better not come over. I'm still mad about it, and not thinking too straight, so there might be a misspelling or a sentence that doesn't make sense. Anyway...

My father has had a sore Achilles tendon. He quit playing basketball because of it a few months ago. My father is 62 years old and he had played basketball forever. Anyway, apparently its begun feeling better because he has talked about doing some light treadmill work and working on an elliptical. Right now he lifts weights and rides an exercise bike, but he says that the bike isn’t enough. My dad is old school and I think he gauges the quality of his workouts by how much he sweats. Anyway, I asked him if he would like to visit my fitness center as a guest. I thought that he could test his Achilles on the treadmill, and try out an elliptical to see how he likes that kind of equipment. He agreed.

So yesterday I drove my father with me to my fitness center. I could get him a guest pass and the only thing he would be obliged to do would be listen to a brief sales pitch. It seemed easy enough. Unfortunately it did not work out quite that way.

As we were leaving the center we ran into Justin, this guy who works out there. I think I have mentioned him in this blog a couple of months ago. Justin is a guy I went out with once. He was kind of hyper and not my kind of guy, hence, we went out only once. The last time he called me I turned him down as gently as I could and he still got rude and surly before abruptly hanging up. I have seen him from time to time at the fitness center but he goes beyond ignoring me, if that’s possible. Anyway, when I was just leaving the fitness center with my father yesterday, Justin was about to walk into it, and it was at that moment when he decided that at least for the moment he did not want to ignore me anymore. He mumbled some sly, vulgar comment implying my father and I were sexually involved, and that’s putting it politely. I think the basis of the ugly comment came from my making the mistake of once telling Justin that I tend to like older men. Justin did not know the man was my father - not that that matters.

Well, Dad heard the comment. He stopped dead in his tracks, turned and hotly asked Justin to repeat what he had just said. I don’t think Justin expected a confrontation from, in Justin’s words; “the old man”, and some of his brazenness quickly evaporated. Fortunately I happened to be between them and while I stood in front of Dad, blocking him, I barked at Justin to get away, which he wisely did. Still, my father was on the verge of following him into the fitness center.

For the rest of the day I was pretty upset, not to mention angry. In fact, I barely slept at all last night. Of course my father remained furious for hours.

Dad is thirty years older than Justin and probably twenty pounds lighter, but there is some gristle in my father who is a combat veteran. If I had been walking on the other side of my father and had been unable to get between them, it is very possible that my father would right now be in a jail cell and Justin would be lying in a hospital bed. Tomorrow I start looking at other fitness centers.    

Another Barrier Broken

Yesterday my boyfriend, Marty, was scheduled to have a night out with one of his friends. But late in the afternoon the friend started developing flu symptoms and so they decided to call off the evening's fun. About fifteen minutes later, or about 7:30, Marty knocked on my door. As is my practice, before opening the door, I looked through the peek hole. There he was.

In the past, when guys I have been dating have come by my apartment unannounced and unexpected, I have generally been just a tiny bit miffed. When I say a "tiny bit", it is almost microscopic, but it is there. I can notice it. Yesterday when I looked through my peek hole and saw Marty, I happily chirped, "It's Marty."  I quickly pulled open the door.

It's funny, I did not even think about that brief moment, and its meaning, until today. This morning it dawned on me that Marty had broken through this little "Katie barrier". I have dated a few guys in my life and not many have achieved this dubious status. Marty is about #3. Dan, a recent boyfriend, never got there.

Marty could not stay overnight. He did not expect to come over and so he did not have any of his work clothes with him. Marty doesn't keep any clothes at my apartment. I'm thinking that might have to change. It might be smart that he keep some various clothing at my place, at least some work clothes, just to make it easier on us.

The next step beyond the clothes is us moving in together. I am very hesitant to take that step. Marty is a great guy and I think he likes me a lot, but no matter who the two people are, moving in together changes the entire dynamic of a relationship. Marty and I could be jeopardizing the good thing we have now. I am not a person who thinks that marriage, or even cohabitation, is mandatory. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the idea of two compatible people living together, it's just that I think it is very possible to have separate living accommodations and with a little give-and-take, maintain a very satisfying, long-term relationship. I don't know; maybe it's my nuttiness getting the best of me. 

Anyway, all of that is still a long way down the road. As of now, my apartment does even have so much as a pair of Marty's socks.            

Unconsolable For Thirty Minutes... Again

When I was just starting to be old enough where boys were not uniformly yucky, a movie appeared in the theaters called Titanic. A bunch of my girlfriends and I could hardly wait to see it. I remember that my mother was just a bit hesitant to allow me to go. It was the adult themes, I guess. But begging can really work and eventually my mother caved in. So on the following Saturday us kids were scheduled to trek to the theater. But my mother had one request; that I watch one of her favorite movies first.

So a few days before I was to see Titanic, my mother put me in a chair in front of the TV. The movie was on a VHS cassette tape, and my mom slipped it into the VCR that was on a shelf right under the television. She then exited the room and left me alone. I just knew it was going to be some boring movie and totally lame. After all, it was one of my mom’s movies.

It began with some really powerful orchestra music, even before the titles appeared. As I sat there, I had to admit that the music got my attention. What I was seeing on the screen was an ill-defined etching of some sort. Finally after a few minutes, with the music gathering in intensity, the etching evolved into an overhead view of New York City. Then the camera submerged down to the streets, down to New York’s west side, to be exact. And there they were; two rival gangs, the Sharks and the Jets.

I loved the songs and the music. I enjoyed the dancing. But it was when the Jets Tony met the Sharks Maria at the dance I knew I was in it to the end. When Tony and Maria sang to each other “Tonight”, a meteor could have crashed into the backyard and I would not have noticed. And later in the movie when they held each other and sang “Somewhere”, I cried. I just could not hold it in.

When Tony was shot and killed out on the playground at the end of the movie, I was completely heartbroken. I was devastated. It became all the more heart-wrenching when members of both gangs put aside their hatred to carry off Tony’s lifeless body.

I watched the movie clear through the credits and the beautiful music that accompanied them. I then immediately put on my jacket and went out the front door for a walk. I was so distraught that I had to gather my emotions before anyone saw me, particularly my mother. About a half hour later I returned. But when my mother asked me how I liked the movie, the mere question almost made me burst into tears all over again. Somehow I held it together and muttered something like, “I guess it was okay.”

A few months ago I recorded West Side Story from TCM. It has been on my DVR since, unwatched. Last night I decided I would pop some popcorn, pour myself a glass of merlot, and see it again. The movie ended about 9:30 or so. I quickly tuned off the TV, grabbed a coat and went out the door. About 10 o’clock I returned from my walk around the neighborhood, a walk I needed to gather my emotions that had been once again pummeled by the movie.

Okay Mom, maybe it’s a little better than just “okay”.