July 28, 2010
Special Forces, all right
Trainer has decided to get creative. And by “get creative”, I mean “indulge his long-denied fantasy of being a drill instructor”.
Ow.
He’s been cribbing moves from special forces training manuals, apparently. Which is why I was crawling like there was barbed wire a few inches above my body, crouch-walking the length of the exercise room several times over, and various other things that had my legs shaking with exhaustion by 15 minutes into the workout.
*whimper*
If I had wanted to be special forces, I probably would have, you know, SIGNED UP TO BE IN THE MILITARY. As it is, it will probably TAKE special forces to get me up the stairs to my condo by the time I get home this evening.
On the plus side, the gold lamé dress is going to look fantastic, and I’m pretty sure that’s not something they let you wear when you’re special forces. Not unless The Nanny is their new wardrobe consultant.
July 27, 2010
A word I never use
Tranquil.
I may have left you with the impression that my spa experience was made significantly less enjoyable by the “rain shower” treatment, which was the first one I did.
And thankfully it was the first, because it made me appreciate the second so much more. It was a Milk and Honey soak, and if there is anything more appropriate for me, I’m not sure I want to know what it is. It’s possible that this experience was only sweetened by the previous… treatment, and it was relatively simple.
The technician simply ran me a bath and poured some lovely goo into it. But the tub was constant flow, with an accessible panel of buttons that let me control the whirlpool jets. The controls kept it within half a degree of 103º F. Once I’d entered the room and drawn the curtain, the technician dimmed the lights, and made sure I was aware of the handful of Hershey kisses next to the tub.
Soft, nondescript music played. And even though the tub was just a few inches shy of perfect length, I relaxed, thoroughly and perfectly, for the next 15 minutes. I’d have been happy to stay there forever, but they have rules about dehydration and sous-viding the clientele, I’d imagine.
Still – I’ve always looked at baths as a time to open a good book and sip some wine, but I think my next will involve a few tea lights and something soothing and instrumental on the iHome. Because tranquil is a very good word, and I should start using it more often.
July 26, 2010
Things that are fired
I-95.
The weather.
Lord & Taylor dressing room lighting and mirrors. I have a theory about this, actually – they light & mirror the rooms to make you look as hideous as possible when naked, so that when you put clothes on your body, the contrast is so remarkable that you are grateful to no longer look like a wildebeest and you buy the clothes.
Things that are not fired:
Sibling Extraordinaire
OPI color-naming people (Coz-u-melted in the sun? heheheeeee)
W, for finding me a way home that did not involve I-95 or the B-W Parkway, and for taking me to churrascaria after I got back. 😀
July 21, 2010
Zen Ze Game of Lowered Expectations
This, I had to think about. Because, well, spas are supposed to be relaxing, first and foremost. Invigorating, sure. And I suppose there are spas out there that put the invigoration first and the relaxation second, but a spa whose entire existence is centered around chocolate, a spa with little bowls of free kisses and fun-size bars pretty much everywhere? Is not a spa that is all about Health! And Exercise! And AWAKE!
No. It is a spa about languid relaxation with a schmear of decadence.
So, I signed up for my package, and it included something called a “Rain Shower”. I had no idea what this was, but figured it was probably something enjoyable, and why not give it a go?
(hint: I’m about to tell you why not)
I changed into my bathing suit, and was escorted into a very complicated shower stall with many shower heads placed so that water could be directed towards the center of the stall from pretty much every angle. These shower heads, I could see, were connected to some very impressive looking gauges, with some complicated knob arrangements alongside. And, a hose.
The technician started the bottommost set of showerheads, and it was cold, and then it wasn’t, and then it was kind of hot, and then I stepped out of the stall and refused reentry until the temperature was readjusted downward. The flow was similarly opened to subsequent sets of showerheads, progressing upwards, with a similar shock of cold followed by (thankfully, not so close to boiling) warm water. The hose was aimed at various muscle groups, and the water pressure allegedly massaged the major muscles, and I repeatedly told myself that this was a new experience and I should keep an open mind, because I WAS NOT RELAXED, NOT AT ALL, NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST, because there was a GROWN WOMAN WITH A HIGH-PRESSURE HOSE POINTED AT ME.
And then, she stopped, and for a spit second, the warm water emitting from the showerheads created a rather pleasant cocoon. And then, she turned on the final part of the shower – something she called a “waterfall deluge”.
All of those pictures of people happily cavorting in waterfalls? LIES.
Freezing cold water poured directly onto my head and took my breath away. Nothing could save me, not the warm water from the horizontal showerheads, not the fluffy towels stacked on the other side of the room, past the lady who STILL HELD THE HOSE, as though she’d use it to corrall me like some unfortunate wayward calf. “Get back in the stall!” I imagined her shouting, as I struggled to regain sufficient control over my person to fill my lungs with air.
And then it stopped, and she told me, in that calm, quiet “spa voice”, to use as many towels as I liked to dry off, pointed out the plastic bag for my swimsuit, and said she’d meet me outside the outer door, so she could take me to my “soak”.
At this point, I was more than a little afraid of what might happen next.
July 20, 2010
I am a grown woman. I will not wear booties.
Not going to happen!
I will wear boots. I will wear shoes. I will wear low boots, or high shoes*. I will not wear something that could be confused, verbally, with something recently worn by my niece and nephew.
Seriously, people. Shouldn’t we insist that marketers treat us like adults, and come up with better names for adult footwear than “booties”?
Don’t even get me started on how they’ve managed to convince a significant segment of the female population that gladiator sandals, and variations on that theme, are even the tiniest bit attractive. Ugh.
*Though honestly, I probably wouldn’t wear any of the things currently described as booties, because I don’t see any reason to make my legs look stumpy or my feet look like hooves (lessons I learned in the eighth grade or so, the last time these things were allegedly the epitome of fashion).
July 19, 2010
Zen? Zen. Zen what? Zen we take care of ourselves.
You might think that a hyperindulgent weekend would result in one feeling terrible on Monday. You might think that six women in a condo 500 feet from tax-free outlet stores and .5 miles from a cocoa-centric spa would result in excessive purchases of clothing that would refuse to button the following week.
You might be wrong.
I’d been apprehensive about the weekend – I tend to feel gargantuan around most of my female friends anyway, as I am 3.5″ taller than the next tallest (who, it might be noted, wears clothes 3 full sizes smaller than mine), and they are all athletic and gorgeous. Not to mention smart and funny. Lovely and intimidating.
Also, I’d never been to a spa before. I signed up for one of the packages, thinking that the people who put these things together probably know a thing or two about producing enjoyable spa experiences. And we’ll talk more about the “rain shower” another time. But the massage? The massage induced the most blissfully languid epiphany:
I want to take care of myself.
I’ve had this body for kind of a while now, and I’ve hated it since I was six. For a while, I hated it passively, making it sit around on couches while I fed it all manner of junk food. Then I hated it slightly more actively, engaging in mild exercise while swearing off almost all foods, save a bizarre ritualized assortment of things I consumed only when alone. Then I hated it more damagingly, partaking of “tiny little flaming sticks of death” on a regular basis. And then I hated it a litte more responsibly, working out 4-5 times a week and eating more healthfully than I ever had before (though that’s not saying much). But I’ve never not hated it.
At least, not until somewhere in the middle of that massage, when it occurred to me that I didn’t. For at least 3 minutes, I not only didn’t hate it, but I loved it, and wanted to take care of it, rather than beat it into submission.
And this morning, I slept for an extra 45 minutes and neglected to put sugar in my tea. I also cringed at a few photographs from the weekend.
Baby steps.
July 16, 2010
My biggest grammatical pet peeve
Drivel. NOT dribble. DRIVEL.
For the love of everything that is good, please stop with the dribble. Please. Dribble is what gooey liquids do. Or it can be the portion of a gooey liquid that HAS dribbled. Or one can dribble a gooey liquid.
However, when one is talking about insipid communications? Banal verbal expressions? It’s DRIVEL.
Thanks.
July 15, 2010
Grey suede pumps and other miscellania
Thirty dollars plus shipping, people. For the perfect grey suede stiletto? I’ll take that. Alloy – the clothes are mostly in juniors sizes, but the shoes? Fair game, by my way of thinking.
I know this might draw a little heat, but I just feel it’s necessary to point out that nine times out of ten, the drivers in Northern VA who piss me off the most? Do not have VA tags. These people stop too far from the intersection, thereby failing to trigger privileged greens AND exacerbating gridlock behind them. Where they’re going is a secret to everyone including them, apparently, as they never ever use turn signals nor seem capable of merging into the appropriate lane before making a turn across multiple lanes of traffic. They go below the speed limit on roads where passing is not permitted, and insist on backing into parking spaces despite being really terrible at it. Really, they’re just IN MY WAY. For all that people from these various places try to claim that VA is a horrible, backwards place not worth visiting, let alone living in, they sure as heck spend a lot of time driving here, and it’s pissing me off.
Why yes, my Klonopin script DID just run out. Why do you ask? I’m just going to go stare at my pretty, 4½” heeled shoes for a while.
July 13, 2010
Those? The gloves over there? Yes, they’re off.
When I was in high school, I had an absurdly massive crush on this guy we’ll call Joe. Joe encouraged the crush, but never acted on it – impressive, since he was definitely a “bad boy” and I was ridiculously naive. Also, Joe started dating a girl whom I promptly began to hate. Haaaate. Really dislike. Solely on the basis of her relationship with him, because there wasn’t much else I could see to dislike. She was petite, with dark curly hair and big brown eyes – in a word, gorgeous. They had the same friends, the same taste in music. And all I had was a stupid crush.
One night, shortly after they’d broken up, she and I sat on my back porch and became really good friends. I was her maid of honor years later, when she married an entirely different sort of person, the sort who did NOT wind up pumping gas in size 40 coveralls. I’m lucky, because I’d said some pretty horrible things about her, when I thought I hated her. All superficial stuff, all just desperately trying to find a flaw so that I could hang onto some hope that Joe would break up with her and finally be free to see what he was missing with me.
I read *entirely* too much Sweet Valley High at that age. Which, I’ll explicitly state for emphasis, was FIFTEEN. Not mid-thirties. And I certainly never pretended to friendship where none existed.
I know I shouldn’t stoop. I really shouldn’t. But now that I’ve taken the gloves off, I’ll have to bend over to put them down at some point – I do hate just throwing things on the floor.
July 12, 2010
I choose
to believe that the saltenas and empanadas I consumed while watching yesterday’s game had absolutely nothing to do with the defeat of the Dutch.
That’s all I’ve got for now.
Seeking John Galt 