Going Home

I’m usually a pretty mellow traveler. Post 9-11 I have developed a degree of patience in regard to airports and air travel. I’m a firm believer in security so I don’t much care what they want me to do to prove I’m harmless, short of complete public nudity. I will say this; if it comes to that I will rethink my current approach to the security line dilemma. If I’m given a choice I opt for the line with the most business travelers. You know the ones – briefcase and small roll on bag. They travel often and know the ropes. They are quick and efficient going through the line. I avoid families with young children, people unlikely to speak English (if this is politically incorrect then sue me), old people in wheelchairs or who have to sit down to remove their Velcro shoes. Other than these criteria I usually don’t pay my fellow travelers much notice. I will change my thinking on this if strip searching becomes a routine thing. I’ll still avoid the list as much as possible, but I will be scanning the various lines and maneuvering to the one with the best possible scenery, if you get my meaning. If the TSA is going to provide a show I want the best one for my time.

Like I said, there isn’t much that really ruffles me as a traveler. Delays happen. Planes break down. Weather refuses to cooperate. There are as many excuses as there are delays, none of which I can do a darn thing about, so for the most part I find a comfy spot, read, write, eat, people watch, whatever to pass the time. I’ll eventually get where I’m going, no need stressing about things I can’t change. Mostly my fellow travelers amuse me. Going to the airport to people watch is about the most fun you can have and every airport has its own unique brand of traveler. Some are full of business travelers. Some are mostly families wearing mouse ears. Some are international hubs with an energy all their own. I can spend a lot of time observing.

Yesterday I had no reason to be overly anxious. My flights were reasonably on time. (By this I mean I wasn’t going to have to sleep in an airport). I was flying two short routes in smaller planes. The weather wasn’t a deal breaking issue. (reference the sleeping in airports again). All things considered I was a pretty happy traveler when I boarded the plane in Memphis for the final leg of my trip home. The small, two rubber band, plane filled quickly. The seat next to me was still open when the traveler from hell came on board. She dropped her computer bag in the aisle seat next to me and proceeded to push, shove, flatten, remove, rearrange, crunch and mangle the belongings of her fellow passengers. I watched with trepidation as she wreaked havoc on three overhead compartments in order to make room for her roll aboard case.

A bad feeling took hold. My be-atch radar began to twitch. She flopped her designer jeaned ass in the seat next to me, stuffed her Trump embossed computer case under the seat and began poking her finger at her iPhone. By now I’d been in my seat for a good fifteen minutes. My seat belt was fastened. I had my iPod and Kindle within easy reach. I switched on the Kindle as it looked like we still had a while before they closed the doors and I would have to turn it off. (This is the one thing I dislike about ebooks. Can’t read them during takeoff and landing.)

Click…click….click….click….click….click….click. Remember the sound of ivory dominoes? My seat mate is playing some tile game on her phone. Click…click….click….click…click.

By the time the flight attendant barked out orders to turn off ALL electronic equipment my skin was itching. My foot was twitching. My jaw was locked. Click…click…click….click…click…. The flight attendant walked by and her screen went black. He stopped long enough to remind her to fasten her seatbelt. She did. I silently wished it would wrap around her neck and strangle her. The flight attendant moved on, the tile game resumed. Click…click…click…click…

Captain Crunch came on the speaker to inform us of the low ceiling in Newark which would delay our departure some 45 minutes. We taxied out to the tarmac to wait it out. Click…click…click…click…click… A few months ago I spent three hours on the tarmac waiting to be deiced. I was calm through the whole thing. Click…click…click…click…click…. Captain Crunch came on again to bless the use of cell phones while we waited on the tarmac. I developed a twitch in my right cheek. Click…click…click…click…click…

I took the Captain’s blessing to include iPods. I tuned in, turned the volume to maximum auditory damage and still, click…click…click….click…click… I turned on the Kindle, including this in the blessed items as well. Click…click…click…click….click….

I envisioned snatching the offending electronic device and crushing in my bare hands until its silicon parts were no more than sand again. Click…click…click…click…click…

At last the flight attendant issued the order to turn off ALL electronic equipment. The plane taxied toward the runway. Click….click…click…click…click…

Using the most polite voice I could muster under the circumstances I asked, “Could you turn that off? I don’t want to take any chances during takeoff.” Be-atch shot laser beams at me. I prepared to take her down for the sake of the other passengers.

“Just so you know, it’s on airplane mode, but I’m turning it off anyway.” No love lost between us. The plane turned onto the runway, the rubber bands wound tight and off we went. I breathed a sigh of relief, only two short hours to home. Click…click…click…click…click… Well shit.

I read. I twitched. I squirmed. I’m pretty sure the people ten rows back could hear the music from my earphones. Click…click…click…click….click…

From my little oval window I cursed the full moon. I should have known better than fly on a full moon. Three rows ahead of me was first class. Two short curtains hung in front of the coach seats doing nothing to prevent the insane cattle from seeing the dozen or so favored cattle on the other side. Click…click….click….click…click…

The flight attendant offered me a soft drink. My hand shook as I took it from his hands hovering somewhere above the be-atches lap. One slip and the evil little device would be soaked in diet cola. Too late to order the sticky, sugary stuff. Click…click…click…click…click…

There’s a curtain for the aisle between royalty and the commoners. It’s twisted and wrapped into a sort of obscene textile sculpture. Click…click…click…click…click…

I’m entertaining ways to disable my seatmate using only the contents of my purse and computer bag when much to my relief she turns the damned game off and snuggles under the two blankets she removed from the overhead in order to make room for her bag. I could be nice and turn off my overhead light or turn down the volume on my headphones, but every shred of generosity and kindness toward my fellow travelers has been wrung completely out of me.

Eventually we descend into the cloud cover. Goodbye moon. The bad news is- we can’t see Newark. Not a good thing when both rubber bands are nearly spun out. The good news is- we can’t see Newark. The plane drops lower. Newark lies below us like a rusted hulk. The be-atch wakes. We’re on final approach. I’m prepared to spring into action if she fires up that game again. If I’m going to crash it isn’t going to be in Newark because of the be-atch and her clicking.

The wheels screech against wet concrete. I breathe a sigh of relief. Click…click…click…click…click… I resist the urge to pummel her and the mini monster in her hands. We’re on the ground. Surely I can stand a few more minutes.

Captain Crunch reports in. We’ll be parking here for a few minutes while we wait for the ground crew to get to the gate. From my portal I can see our gate. The jet way waits off to one side for us to park. No ground crew. No one. Nada. Zip. Click…click…click…click…click…click…

If I’d been seated in an exit row I would have popped the door and slid down the inflatable slide right then. I did consider climbing over be-atch and storming the door. How far could it be to the ground from a two rubber band plane anyway?

Click…click…click…click…click…

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Six Days on the Road

I started out on this road trip intending to be home on the fourth day, a whirlwind trip down south to see Daughter #2, then home and back to my usual routine. As with all good intentions, they are subject to change. A phone call from Daughter #1 a few hours after I’d hit the road extended my trip by two days and over six hundred miles. Not that I’m complaining, but I’d packed enough clothes for three days with a few incidentals and accidentals. Those are the clothes you take in case the weather dude was wrong, you end up eating someplace where the food doesn’t come in a paper wrapper, and of course some clothes to wear to the hotel pit.

I’ve been trying really hard to eat well and make it to the pit six out of seven days each week so I knew the trip wasn’t going to be easy. Sitting on your ass for hours a day behind your only heavy lifting consisting of a sweaty fast food paper cup does not make for healthy living. I have a new respect for long haul truck drivers. I honestly don’t know how they do it. It’s a wonder more people aren’t killed on the nation’s freeways each year by truck drivers whose hearts give out from the kind of food they eat every day.

Truly, I have no excuse for eating like a truck driver. My vehicle is of a standard size and I can pull into any parking lot, anywhere so my eating choices are greatly expanded. It was my decision to either take advantage of this freedom and eat as well as one can reasonably expect to do on the road, or chuck it all and enjoy myself. I decided on a modified approach to the problem, after all I was well south of the Mason-Dixon Line where food is serious business.

Day one wasn’t so bad. I managed to eat reasonably well. I declined the French fries with my chicken wrap and opted for the unsweetened iced tea. Of course the waitress looked at me like I was an alien from another planet. I was a conundrum and clearly she was confused. I spoke with a Texas accent, acceptable in this part of the country, but I ordered like a Yankee. That’s when I got the phone call. Perhaps I should have gotten the sweet tea after all, because I clearly wasn’t thinking straight when I agreed to extend my trip and drive even deeper into the South on a recon mission.

The further South I went the worse my decisions became. Let me just say that I don’t think anyone can travel through the Southern United States and not succumb to the food there. I found myself eating in places called Biscuitville and Kountry Kookin. I couldn’t pass a Cracker Barrel without drooling. I decided early on that I would limit my intake of artery paste (they call this gravy in the South) to once a day. This is not easy to do. Everything on the menu comes with artery paste on it, or at the very least offered on the side. You get used to words like smothered, drizzled, and topped. These are code words meaning there is a sauce involved. Everything has one of these words in the description. Asking to have something plain is a tip off that you aren’t from around there and suddenly you notice everyone is giving your table a wide berth. Everyone in the restaurant eyes you as if they’re afraid you may infect them with your Yankee-ism.

Frying is an art form in the South. Everything on the menu can be ordered fried. This includes vegetables and dessert. Some things proudly declare this in the name as in Chicken Fried Steak and Fried Tomatoes. Other things are more subtle, okra for example. I don’t think this green vegetable can be found north of Mason-Dixon, but is a staple in any good southern kitchen. Being a southerner myself I know there are only three ways to serve okra, pickled, stewed in gumbo, or fried, but southern menus only list okra. It’s not until you see it piled on your plate that you understand they were referring to fried okra on the menu.

On the fourth day I made the error of asking simply for tea. Here you don’t have to specify iced, it’s assumed and unless you specify otherwise you will receive sweet tea. I realized my mistake as soon as the waiter delivered the half gallon glass and there was no little box of sweetener packets on the table. I took a sip which confirmed my suspicions. I had long since decided that I didn’t want misery for company on the remainder of my trip, so I drank the syrupy brew. There’s nothing quite like the combination of caffeine and corn syrup (yep, this is what makes sweet tea sweet) to get your motor running.

It was downhill (pardon the pun) from then on. I gave in to temptation. I ordered fried stuff, smothered stuff and gave up my quest to eat healthy. I reasoned that when I returned home I would resume my low fat, low sugar, no artery paste lifestyle so what would be the harm in indulging my taste buds for a few days. By day six there wasn’t a trucker on the road with more cholesterol in his blood than me. With just one more road meal ahead of me I swung my four wheeler into the parking lot of a burger joint. Up until then I’d avoided the national chains. I had eaten one burger, but it was grilled at the ball field and I’d turned down the potato chips and washed it down with a diet cola. I was due a fast food orgy.

The smell of grease and charred meat filled the air. It was intoxicating. I lost my head. My numb backside pushed for the salad menu, but I remembered a news segment about the hidden calories in fast food salads, so I gave in and ordered the cheeseburger and fries. Yep, fries. The counter lady asked me what kind of drink (they filled them for you). I eyed the tank of sweet tea. In a rare moment of sanity I ordered a diet cola, not that it was going to make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, but it eased my conscience.

Salt is cheap. It must be because it is used liberally at that place. I was revved on fat and salt and caffeine so I ordered a cup of frozen chocolate dairy product to go and headed for the freeway. I was less than two short hours from home and fueled up. With sweaty paper fast food cup in hand I put the pedal to the metal, so to speak and headed north.

As I wove in and out of the line of eighteen wheelers I shoveled spoonfuls of cold chocolate soft serve into my mouth. I cranked up the radio to hear what was now my theme song. I breezed like silver lightning around another truck grinding his way up the next hill while I sang…. Six days on the road and I’m gonna make it home tonight.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Spring Break

I’ve taken to the road for a week and as usual I’ve been looking for excuses to skip my workouts. My hotel boasted a fitness center on its website, and true enough it has one. What they didn’t say was it’s the size of my closet back home and has exactly three cardio machines- a treadmill, an ½ rack, and a lounge chair bike. I can make do, but it’s tempting to use the modest size as an excuse. Believe me; I’ve thought of more excuses than there are gators in Florida. Some were legitimate, some not so much. I did deserve a break after a cross country trip that along with the beginning of daylight savings time took four of my twenty-four hours away, but that was the only one that had a chance of keeping me from the pit.

I started out my first day with a biscuit smothered in artery paste and a glass of orange juice that everyone knows is the antidote for cholesterol, so I really didn’t need to go to the pit. Lunch was a modest salad I followed up with a bag of peanut M&M’s. Everyone knows peanuts are a good source of protein, so I had nothing to feel bad about there.

Rationalization is something I do very well, but alas, I sucked it up and went to the mini pit. Luckily my fellow transients aren’t much into physical fitness and I had the closet to myself. This had a few unexpected advantages. I cranked the air conditioning down to arctic blast and selected what I wanted to watch on the television. No arguing, no wishing I could change the channel. I was in complete control. I considered locking the door from the inside just in case someone else was into self inflicted torture, but I stuffed the remote control out of sight instead.

In a sorry attempt to make the room look twice its size some moron covered one whole wall with floor to ceiling mirrors. Only a decorator who’s never seen the inside of a pit would do an asinine thing like that. No one wants to see what they look like while they’re working out, especially me. I understand certain dance type classes benefit from mirrors so participants can see and emulate the instructor, but this is a closet. There’s hardly enough room to walk around the machines much less do any sort of dance or yoga moves. So there I was, dewing all over the place, trying to concentrate on a good soap opera but the scary reflection in the mirror kept drawing me back. Egads! There was the breakfast biscuit, the bag of peanuts and a whole host of other dietary indiscretions staring me in the face. It was a kind of scared straight moment. I vowed then and there to give up my wicked ways and eat nothing but lettuce and broccoli from then on.

A half hour later I crawled back to my room, changed into a clean tent and picked up Daughter #2. Of course she was hungry. This little town doesn’t have much to choose from in the way of lettuce and broccoli laden menus so we chose a Mexican restaurant. My cheese enchiladas came with a pile of shredded lettuce with a dollop of salsa on top which I shoved to the side of the plate. It was still there when the nice busboy took it away. My resolve lasted a whole four hours, maybe less. I guess I need to go back to the mini-pit and take another look. Maybe I should put a big mirror in front of me at the table so I could watch myself eat. Perhaps then I’d have more willpower. I’ll be home in a few days and looking for a new pit. Maybe I should look for one with mirrored walls. Or not.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Boca Raton Too

Pretending to be idly rich and bored is boring. A cold has kept me from the hotel pit for a few days, but I’m feeling better and willing to give the place another try. Wearing my favorite workout gear I trek past the croquet lawn to the pit. I knew there were adults who play croquet, but I’d never really seen any until this week. Since I wasn’t up to the pit I spent some time sitting in a wicker chair watching grownups play croquet. I played croquet when I was a kid and I remember it being much livelier than what I have been watching. Back then the rules were – hit your ball, hit your opponents’ ball, hit your opponent if necessary. It was similar to miniature golf and moved along quickly.

I have no idea what the rules are to the adult version. All the players wear white. They carry their mallets in custom made canvas bags like a pool shark does his cue. They stand around the lawn leaning on their mallets, taking turns hitting their ball from wicket to wicket – I think. There are little flags on the wickets that they flip up and down, why I have no idea. Maybe if I didn’t drift off to sleep between moves, or shots, or whatever they call it I would know more, but the game resembles a constipated version of billiards played on a golf green and I’m hard pressed to stay awake. Maybe it’s the nighttime cold medicine I took by mistake, but still it would take a lot of caffeine to keep me awake for this.

My last trip to the hotel pit was rather uneventful but that didn’t keep me from passing on my observations to you. You can thank me later. Today the place is hopping, or rather moseying, as the average age here is C+25. Hubby and I are among the youngsters today, something that we haven’t been in a while. The same half rack I used the other day is available so I climb aboard and program the computer to burn some fat off. The lounge chair bikes are popular with the older crowd. There’s one guy with earphones on, the wires going to a device in his breast pocket (emphasis on the breast – I’ll get to that later). I’m wondering if he’s listening to music or his pacemaker. Could be either one. The woman on the end is wearing a diamond bracelet worth more than our entire net worth. Add in the ring on her finger and I’ll throw in our life insurance policies too. Her resort logo sweatshirt cost more than my entire workout wardrobe combined. I’ve been to the gift shop, I know.

Then there’s the guy at the stair step machine. You’ve seen these machines. They’re like climbing stairs, only you just have pedals to push. I’m pretty sure you have to actually put your feet on the pedals to derive any benefit from the machine. This dude has the television on, his water bottle in the rack and he’s standing in front of the machine reading his newspaper. After a while he folds the paper, gathers his stuff, and leaves. That was a good workout if I ever saw one.

This place only has one ‘real’ bike and Mr. Adidas (I’ve named him this because he’s dressed head to toe in the latest Adidas ‘look at me, I go to the gym’ attire) has claimed it today. This is his routine. No kidding. He hops on the bike, opens the Wall Street Journal (The default, left on your door newspaper here), pedals furiously for exactly one minute (yes, I timed it), folds his newspaper, wipes his brow with the towel draped over the handlebars, drinks a swig from his Fuji water bottle, gets off the bike, disappears into the weight room for four minutes, returns to bike to repeat the process. I spent half an hour on the half rack and his routine never varied. He was still at it when I left.

On the half rack next to me is a guy, a C, with a cell phone stuck to his ear, talking away. There is a sign on the mirrored wall about eight feet directly in front of us that says – Please be courteous to other guests - Do not talk on cell phones while on machines. I suppose he can’t read and I really don’t want to hear his conversation with his wife, or whatever she is. However, his voice overrides the music from my iPod and I am now privy to his travel plans, among other things.

I’ve had time to watch a little television since I’ve been here and one thing that stands out is the abundance of commercials for male breast reduction surgery. In SoCal we get plenty of plastic surgery ads. Most of them are female breast enlargement, teeth whitening and anything else that will help a woman land a gig as a trophy wife. I couldn’t account for the plethora of male breast reduction ads - until today. As I scanned the geriatric crowd around me I understood. ‘Nuf said.

This is a first class place and to prove it they have a complimentary beverage bar near the door. There’s coffee, tea, water, and I suspect, Geritol, for parched participants. What else would explain the crowd gathered around the counter? I’d be there too if Steve or Andre was over there, but I haven’t seen anyone I think could possibly be them. Hubby and I finish up around the same time and drop our plush, for our convenience towels, in the hamper and head out.

I need a nap. Time to go watch some croquet.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Boca Raton

Trying to keep to a workout schedule while on the road is not easy. Adjusting to the coast to coast time change, travel fatigue, and a cold have slowed me down. Our first full day here in Florida we took a little road trip to Key Largo where we found a cute little seafood restaurant on the water for lunch and a well needed break from the rental car. Watching pelicans and listening to what was quaintly referred to as jazz was relaxing. We both ordered the coconut encrusted Mahi sandwich which was delicious, but not especially calorie friendly. Nothing we’ve had to eat since we arrived has been calorie friendly, but hey, it’s a vacation – sort of.

We got off to a late start on our road trip due to a bout of time change induced over sleeping. Translated that means if we’d been in California, we would have been up rather early for a Sunday, but on Florida time, we slept in. So, cutting short our original plan to drive all the way to Key West we returned to the hotel in the late afternoon and went to the hotel pit. They like to call it a Fitness Center, one of three scattered around the vast grounds. Lord knows, we needed to burn off a few calories.

You never know what to expect of a hotel pit, but somehow I knew this one would be up to my expectations and I wasn’t disappointed. Housed in a Spanish style building just past the manicured croquet lawn from our room, it is an imposing sight. There are two paths that will take us to this cleverly disguised den of torture. One is a Spanish tiled covered walkway lined with wicker chairs with bright cushions where sports enthusiasts can watch the action on the croquet lawn. The other is a raised wooden walkway skirting a giant Kapok tree with roots like giant spiked dragon tails reaching out in all directions. I’m not sure if the walkway is designed to protect the tree from humans, or the other way around. We actually had one of these in our yard in San Diego years ago and cut it down for fear of our children coming to harm from it.

Having navigated the grounds and made it to the pit I began to question my sanity. Why, I ask myself, am I doing this? I do not want to do this. I want to lie in my nice soft bed and just be still for a few hours. We’ve been on planes, trains and automobiles for the last two days, and the thought of movement, of any kind, is less than appealing. Hubby, oblivious to my inner debate, opened the door and ushered me in. Well damn. I was there and by lack of protest had consented to participate.

The place was surprisingly nice, if not a bit cramped. They have as many racks and treadmills as the pit back home, but alas, no high-rise stair thing-a-ma-jiggies. Being a Sunday afternoon the hotel was in transition. Many people were leaving, and a whole new crop were coming in, thus the low turnout at the pit. We had plenty of torture devices to choose from. Hubby opted for a run on a treadmill – need I remind you that I do not run – and I chose a half rack, identical to the one I habitually choose in my home pit.

There was little to see, less to comment on. There were a few people running and a few on the racks. None were doing anything unusual or appeared the least bit eccentric. What a bummer. Where were all the interesting people? Did we leave them all behind in L.A.? Perhaps they were at one of the other pits available to the hotel guests. Were we wrong to choose the one closest to our room? I must admit I was more than a little disappointed by this turn of events. The hotel is the kind of place where people sail up in their multimillion dollar yachts in November, dock them outside and check in for the winter. Breakfast for two is close to a hundred dollars. Was I expecting eccentric people? You bet.

Thanks to acres of mirrored walls I could see everyone in the place, including the ones in the adjacent weight room. Other than one C+5 woman in her designer label workout gear rolling around on the floor with a ball, there was little to comment on. I know, how can that be, you ask? I too was amazed. I was at least hoping for a hunk of a tennis instructor to come through the place, maybe even Steve or Andre, the guys listed as class instructors for the idly rich and bored. Perhaps I should sign up for one of their classes later in the week. I checked the list of available classes and decided against that scenario. Even though Steve and Andre may be wonders to behold, I can’t work up any enthusiasm for classes called Aerobic Burn, or Cardio Crunch and that begin around 7a.m., which my body still believes is 4a.m.. Apparently the idly rich and bored get up early. Who knew?

I did my time on the half rack, content that I’d done something besides sit on my back side and shovel food down my throat, which is what I plan to do for the next few days. Don’t judge me. I think there may be something to this idly rich thing and I’m willing to give it a try. If I get bored Steve and Andre will be there to help me through.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Fifty-six

I’m back from Margaritaville folks. I was a good girl, limiting myself to only one of said frozen concoctions (see photo evidence). So what if it was a large one, it was only one, I swear. That’s me on the left accompanied by Daughter #1 and Daughter #2, both of legal age in all fifty states. I wanted to save my extraneous calories for more pleasurable things, like the chocolate buffet. I showed considerable restraint that night (see photo evidence). That tiny plate of food, coupled with three multi-course meals a day, plus snacks in between was all the entertainment a foody like me needed to be a happy sailor.

I know I should regret my excesses, but to be honest with you, I don’t. Not in the least. I had fun. I indulged. I over indulged. I gave myself permission to relax and enjoy, and because of that I had a wonderful week of real vacation time. There is nothing like guilt to put the kibosh on a good vacation.

Today is my first day back at the land lubber pit. A little stomach virus set me back a few days, but this morning I donned the stretch pants and rubber soled shoes and off I went. Not even the torrential rains could deter me this morning. I forded flooded roads and took my chances along saturated hillsides poised to slough off and block my passage. I was determined. I was intrepid. This is a gross exaggeration on my part, as it wasn’t really raining when I left the house, but in SoCal you just never know. It could happen.

A few thousand others were as determined as I and I searched the rows of equipment for one of my chosen methods of torture. Lucky me, there was one ¾ rack available. I turned on the iPod and took off on my Magic Carpet Ride scanning the pit for familiar faces. Being a rainy day there were plenty of the ‘keep the membership for days like this’ crowd, a bevy of MOP’s (Mom’s of PreSchoolers), Trance Lady, and a whole new crop of resolutionists. Not a firefighter or hunk in sight. Either I was too early for my usual crowd, or they knew better than to come on a day like this. As I shuffled my feet, more and more people arrived. The personal trainers were doing a booming business signing up new members. Oh goody. Not that I don’t want these peeps to get in shape, I do. I just want them to do it somewhere else.

I’ve got my machine and no one is taking it away from me. I ignore the line of impatient faces along the wall, watching the rows of machines, waiting for someone to either: A) Finish their workout, B) Feel guilty about hogging the machine and quit, or C) Collapse and thereby free up the machine for them. I had the feeling they didn’t really care which of these options netted them the desired result - an unoccupied machine.

I did as the music suggested and closed my eyes and let the sound take me away. Some minutes later the dew was falling harder than the rain outside, which had I admit, started to fall pretty good. I switched my grip from the swinging handle bars to the heart rate monitor. These are handy gadgets if you know how to use them. I understand it is beneficial to get your heart rate up and keep it there for a period of time. I equate this with revving your car engine every once in a while to clean out the gunk building up. Your heart and your engine will run better for the periodic maintenance.

I wrapped my fingers around the sensors and watched the screen for my results. Usually heart rate is measured in beats per minute, and expressed as a numerical value. Zero is bad. I know that much. I wait patiently for my score to appear. Instead of numbers I get fireworks. Little red dot matrix lights flash in starburst sequence. What does this mean, I ask myself? Did my heart explode? Have I won the jackpot? Have blood vessels in my retinas burst? I dart a glance over to the still long line of covetous would-be exercisers. Maybe one of them is going to get a machine sooner rather than later.

Alas, the little red dots settle into a pattern resembling a number. Granted, it is a number I’m pretty sure my heart shouldn’t be beating at, but it’s more reassuring than the starbursts. At least my heart is still beating. I flash a sinister grin at the waiting line. Not yet folks I silently tell them. I’m not done for yet.

By some miracle I’m able to complete my half hour fat burner workout. Thinking it might not be good to just stop cold turkey I head for the lounge chair bikes. I figure allowing my heart rate to come down to normal slowly is better than slamming on the brakes two feet in front of the intersection. I am a cautious driver after all.

Twenty minutes of a slow ride has my heart firing on all cylinders again and I head out. The promised rain is coming down now. Fear not, I made it home where I plan to stay for the remainder of the day. I worked off a bite or two of chocolate mousse today. I’m thinking it’s time for a nice cup of hot chocolate. Care to join me?

Many thanks to John Kay and Rushton Moreve for their lyrics.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill- at Sea

Middle age white women should not wear corn rows. Especially if they have a mullet. This is day five of my seven day cruise and my second trip to the pit. My first trip was on day two when we were on our way to Honduras and Neptune was none too happy about us invading his playground. Seas were rough, seven to twelve foot swells, and walking was a challenge all its own. I promised my faithful readers I would make an appearance at the floating pit, so off I went with my good intentions and an open mind.

Since it was still early in our sea adventure lots of other folks had the same idea, so the pit was well populated. Most of these folks were the dedicated pit types with their well worn workout clothes and agenda. I was lucky to find a ¾ rack unoccupied. Hubby found the one treadmill open and we were set. When the balance and coordination genes were handed out I was at the end of the line and like the kid in the back row of the Kindergarten class who only drew pictures with the black crayon because it was all that was left in the box when it finally made its way to him, I, shall we say, got the vanilla crayon. I can barely walk and sip my margarita at the same time, much less do anything that requires more than simple brain to limb commands.

Let me describe for you this wonder of modern torture, the floating pit. There is a room full of yoga stuff and spin cycles (not to be confused with laundry equipment), and a corner full of free weights. The back row is occupied by those mysterious people powered, padded benches with weights attached, a water fountain and a mini bar full of energy drinks and such as (like any of us need more calories or caffeine). The middle row has treadmills, ¾ racks, bikes and lounge chair bikes. The front row, the one with the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Caribbean Sea has a few ¾ racks and a bunch of treadmills. The only machines with televisions are the ones in front of the windows. My rack is one of these. I’m confused, a frequent occurrence, as to why a person would want to watch television when they could be watching the world go by, but there they are, these personal size screens, strategically placed to block the view.

I climb aboard, program in the easy rider workout, and start peddling. Did I mention the seven to twelve foot seas? This ship is rocking and rolling, and so am I. I hang on for dear life and pedal, darting my head from side to side to see around the television which I have no idea how to turn off, or change the channel. I have my stone dead Ipod and headphones (yep, I forgot to turn it off when I put it away on the plane and we still landed without incident,) but elect not to listen to the audio of the unidentified program playing eighteen inches in front of me. The rack is situated on thick foam pads which add to the rocking motion and will do nothing for my ass when I go flying off this thing, as they are only under the feet, not where I expect to land. An oversight, I’m sure.

If everyone would spend a half hour in the pit every day, the cruise line would go out of business. I’m sure most of their profits come from the sale of alcoholic beverages. I’m not much of a drinker, but I’m swaying like a drunken sailor and trying to get a glimpse of the horizon to orient my inner ear, clutching the handle bars with white knuckles. WEEEEEEEE! Who needs alcohol? Who needs Disneyland?

After a while I get the hang of the thing and my mind begins to wander. That’s when I notice the thump, wreep, wreep, thump coming from the middle row, I think. One of those treadmills sounds like someone clubbing baby seals. To make up for my lack of coordination genes I have a gene that makes me sensitive to screeching sounds. You know the ones, fingernails on blackboards, nail files and emery boards, and baby seals being whacked. Suddenly the pitiful excuse for programming is looking better. I manage to tough it out for twenty five minutes without falling off, or having my skin crawl completely off. I have survived my first floating pit experience.

That brings me to today and trip number two to the pit. The do gooders have either given up, or got up a lot earlier than I did. The pit is only half occupied so I choose a ¾ rack in the middle row where there are no televisions. From my vantage point I have a good view of the water which is somewhat calmer than the last time we came this way. A few of the treadmills in the front row have big' out of order' signs, probably the clubbing baby seals ones, as today’s sound effects are the usual pit variety. Most of my fellow volunteers for torture are C’s and a few C+’s and C-‘s. There is the C in front of me wearing her gold jewelry, capri’s, sailor striped shirt, and flip flops. Yep, flip flops. She’s on the treadmill, walking at a pretty good clip, but not quite fast enough. Every five steps or so she has to take a few little running steps to catch up. There is the woman in her plaid pajama pants and the one that isn’t clear on the concept of leggings being something you wear underneath you outer garments.

There are a few C-25 men running, and then there is the female C with the mullet in corn rows. She and her male companion are moving from one piece of equipment to the other every three minutes or so, clearly not the seasoned pit goers. Luckily she isn’t moving fast enough for all those beads in her hair to clink together or it would sound like a castanet band in here. I suspect this is their first cruise and they have a list of the ships amenities and have decided they will take advantage of all of them while on board. When they leave the pit they will pull out the list, put a big check mark next to the pit, and move on to the next thing on the list. I have reason to suspect it will be the buffet , which I’m sure they have visited more than once.

I have no room to talk. I began my day with waffles with banana syrup, whipped cream, hash browns, bacon, a croissant, and my homage to eating healthy, orange juice. Thirty minutes on the ¾ rack did nothing to negate the effects of that meal, or any of the other similar ones I’ve had this week, but at least I went to the pit and made the effort. All this thinking and writing is making me hungry. I think I’ll see what’s on the buffet and maybe I’ll take a walk around the deck. Or not.

Heading East

The time has come for me to pack up the wagon and head East for the summer. Thankfully my wagon will be a jet leaving out of LAX but the packing is just as much of a pain.

I'm sorry to be leaving Hubby, Betty(the dog) and my roses behind but my girls, swimming pool and almost six acres of lovely hardwood forest await me. You can ask me later how I'm getting along with the forest and the ongoing eradication of undergrowth. Give me a few weeks and I'm sure I'll be singing another tune!

Leaving the land of taco shops for the land of hot dog and ice cream stands. Fair trade? Maybe, maybe not.

I know I've missed seeing all of my hundreds of daffodils blooming but perhaps the dogwoods and the eastern redbud will still be in bloom, maybe some forsythia too. With some luck the azaleas survived the winter along with the butterfly bushes and rhododendrons.

I'm looking forward to lounging on the deck, watching the birds, deer, bears, turkeys, chipmunks and other assorted critters as I work on my rewrite of Over Exposed. Maybe I'll even get back on track with Ryder and Raine's story.

Happy Cinco de Mayo to all. I have to wonder about this dubious holiday which seems to have been created by Americans in order to have an excuse to eat copious amounts of Mexican food and drink Margaritas. To this I say - who needs an excuse?

Have a good one.
D.