"No Gurlz Alowd!" - The Weight Room

   There she is! Whoops, there she goes. A quick peak around the door and off goes another gym-goer, choosing the security of the machines and the elliptical over the iron. And who wouldn't? The weight room has to appear to be, easily, the most injury-prone, humbling, and defeating place in the gym. Why go stand nervously over a sweaty bench, with a pair of dumbells that are either too heavy or too light but sounded like a good idea at the rack, wondering if you really do know how to do a chest flye, when you can sit on a comfortable machine in the nice room over there, wrapped in the confidence of the machine's arms while it guides you through the chest flye? Even worse, what if you're a woman thinking about the weight room? Ohhh, has there ever been a more stereotypical boys club than the weight room?! For years, I would stick my head around the door, see the buff, aggressive young men throwing weights around like cavemen, pounding their chest, every once in a while punching each other out till a victor was named, than baring their teeth like studly silverbacks. Ok, I made that up, but as far as I was concerned, that's exactly how it was in that man-cave. If the room was empty, I'd squirrel in, tentatively touching plates and weights, examining racks, wondering what the hell it all did and why there were a thousand of them. Why was this bench bent, and that one under that bar? Oh, I get it, those bent bars go with the bent benches, and the straight bars with the straight benches! Right?  And the pulleys! What?! The leg press machine looked like slow death, or a human panini press. I'd think of giving it a shot, then remember I hadn't written a will yet. Suddenly, someone would walk in, and that was the end of that. I'd wipe the fake sweat from my brow, and strut out of there like a pro. It doesn't help that the men in the weight room seem to be staring at any woman in there. There's a thousand mirrors in those rooms, its pretty obvious when someone's being watched.
   But now the weight room is my friend, my best friend. Like the misunderstood, giant kid on the playground, it may look foreboding, but it has a good heart. What happened? Well, I learned how to use it. I had trainers show me, I had my husband show me, I studied its internal workings and theories, and I stood in there and watched. The benefits of the weight room are as solid as its appearance. In fact, while it may be the least visited room in the gym, it is arguably the most valuable. Free weight training focuses on closed kinetic chain exercises, utilizing the entire body for work. Machines are primarily tools for open kinetic chain exercises that isolate a muscle. Most people benefit more from CKC exercises, and resistance training increases fat burn. But, as usual, I digress. While I was doing all this, I began to realize that the weight room is not only scary for women, its even more terrifying for men. You see, the reasons most men stare when a woman walks into the weight room is:
    A) They now feel the need to look good, and that may make them think, "Oh, crap!"  However tired that last set made them, however many curls they already did, now they can't show it. They want to impress. Testosterone is streaming through their veins from lifting, and their instincts cause them to ruffle their plumage and strut their stuff, whether they feel like it or not.
    B) They're terrified you may know more/lift more then they do and that they're doing an exercise wrong. No one wants to be watched through someone else's peripheral vision and wonder if they're looking ridiculous.
   C) They're impressed. Women don't make many appearances in the weight room, so a woman who does obviously holds her own, and that is impressive.
  What makes it more terrifying for men? Well, traditionally, men "belong" in the weight room. But who showed them how to use it? Odds are, most men have little or no training in the weight room. Walking in there, and either not being able to lift heavy or not knowing your stuff is a humiliating prospect for men. Men have judged their manliness by feats of strength for eons, so being a lightweight in the weight room is tantamount to being the loser.
   So, don't be intimidated by the weight room. Utilize it. Embrace it, it needs a hug. No one is laughing at you, in fact, they're cheering you on. No one in there was born buff, and if you ask, they'd be more than happy to help or spot or just share a conversation. The fact alone that you are in the weight room shows your commitment to being healthy and fit, and only an idiot would scorn that. Trainers don't mind taking a minute to walk you through an exercise, and there are equipment orientations at most gyms. You can even do what I do, and bring your study materials into the weight room and practice. I have yet to be laughed at. Now, I've had a few instances of jerkiness, but everyone else in the room thought that person was a jerk too. Can't judge an orchard for a few bad apples. Go empower yourself, connect with your raw, animal side and throw some iron around. :)
I'll leave you with one of my favorite Terry Crews Videos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ra1N7Fyggyc.

Jalepeno Beans, Poop, and Other People's Sneakers

  If nutrition and fitness were easy, we'd all have six packs. End of story. But it's not. Every person I meet has their own story. Their own trials and tribulations that keeps them going not for the six pack on the tummies, but the six pack in the fridge. I'm not saying everyone should have a six pack, and to "get off your asses now" and "lose the excuses" and "calories don't burn themselves!" Ugh, I really hate those sayings. Sure, sure, sure, for some people that level of negativity and anger is just the swift kick in the balls that they need to get to the gym. I see it as a set-up for self-loathing and body issues. Nothings more depressing than picturing a starving person crying over the bite of doughnut they just ate, then eating the rest of the doughnut because they're crying. But I digress...
  Anyways, back to walking a mile in someone else's gym shoes. This morning, we were at the gym and my daughter declined to poop in a timely manner and ended up covered in it. I threw away the panties, wrapped up the dress, and searched the diaper bag. Nothing. Nada. Not a single thing, except some giant socks. Thought about putting those on her like pants, but didn't see that going anywhere. Knew if I put my son's diapers on her, she'd freak out, and my son's in a possessive stage now anyways. Didn't need him screaming, running and trying to rip it off her. Ended up wrapping her in my windbreaker. There went the option of going into the grocery store for some healthy grub. Hello, McDonalds. They can't judge me here! Later, once pants have been restored, we do go to the grocery store. Start off in produce, making it down aisle 7, when my daughter begins gagging and hacking. Suddenly she throws up.
"What happened? Why did you throw up?!"
"I ate something."
"What did you eat?"
"A jalapeño-bean. It was hot!"
You see. Lord knows what that other person is going through trying to get to the gym and eat healthy. Not everyone can just pop off to the grocery store, at least not without some stressful incident. Can't stick a pants-less child in the gym daycare. Give credit where credit is due. Maybe they didn't get to the gym five times a week, but they got there today. They'll try again tomorrow. Keep trying. We're all in the same boat. Be it a desk job, traveling a lot, small children, long commute. The list goes on. Just keep trying. And laugh. Do lots of that, burns some calories. ; )

                 

My daughter in her windbreaker skirt. My son getting mad behind her.

Ode to a Stroller

   With the excitement of my first Stroller Fit! Class this week comes a flood of memories, three and a half years ago, to my own stroller jogging experiences. I remember running with my daughter. Correction, starting running. I wasn't a runner before hand, and my flaming red face, haggard breathing, and perpetually angry expression (deep concentration makes me look murderous) pretty much gave me away. Starting running is hard, but throw in a new baby and it's a constant stream of insecurities. Here's an example of my thoughts in any two minute section of a run:
 (1) am I doing this right?
(2) omg, did that bump I went over just cause her brain damage?
(3) do they make sports bras with leak protection?
(4) I know that bump caused brain damage (stop and check sleeping baby)
(5) even if they did make that bra, I'd have to sell a kid to afford it, and I only have this one.
(6) ahh crap, baby belly escaped, I think everyone saw it. Way to be sexy, Hallie. (That's me)
As ridiculous as it felt, I was pretty used to swallowing my pride by this point. Ask any woman whose had a kid, she'll fill you in. So every morning I'd roll my thighs into my too-tight bicycle shorts (mama needs friction-protection!) and a nursing tank (even though we'd switched to formula) and shoulder us out the door.
  As she grew older, my little girl began testing my agility. I'd be jogging along, lost in my headphones, huffing and puffing, then suddenly something would go whizzing out of the corner of my eye. A pacifier. Whoooo! Ninja caught that. Start up again. Whizzing pacifier. Slam on the brakes, pop paci into my mouth to remove germs (ancient mommy trick, don't knock it), sigh, start again. I'd get ten feet, get in the zone,  as per instruction losing my mommy-ness to the sound of Eminem, when whiiizzzz! Agh! So I began anchoring the paci to the stroller. Hah, out smarted that baby. At least until all her snack cups, blankets, and toys began meeting the same fate. Nothing throws off your game like a knit baby blanket caught up around the back tire.
   Before long, my jogging stroller resembled a cross between a cyborg and a bouncer from all the  gadgets anchored with colored, plastic links and ropes. But it worked! No more flying life lines. The day of my first race came up, and I ran it with my daughter in her stroller. Ten miles! I felt like a  million dollars! Like superwoman with a baby! Oh, if "Roar!" had been around, I'd be banging my chest and belting it! I was the biggest bad-ass I'd ever known! You feel me?  Half way through, I saw a stroller dad who had been booking, stopped. He was feeding his baby a bottle, anxiously watching the other runners as they tore up the hill ahead. My heart went out to him, because I knew he wanted to race. Then I desperately willed my daughter to  hold it together and picked up my pace so I wouldn't meet the same fate! I finished that race, in my  too-tight bike shorts and nursing tank, gave my daughter my finish-line banana, and felt anchored to my daughter in our shared victory. No one could take that from us, we had done it together.
   What's your story with your stroller? If you could provide one piece of wisdom for a stroller mom or dad, what would it be? Or even better, what's the most embarrassing thing you've had happen as a stroller-cizer? (No, I don't mean "cider", autocorrect. That makes no sense. Sheesh, you should know my made up words, crappy technology.) This blog, after all, is about laughing at, I mean 'with' each other. ;)