Tag Archives: city life

Cross training class: bane or boon?

Tonight I start my yoga class at Broadway Armory Park. I was enrolled in this class for 3 quarters of last year, and loved it. The City of Chicago pays for a good chunk of this program, so the fee to people like me isn’t too bad–$42 for about 10 weeks. It’s hosted in a large room with skylights and hardwood floors; all of last year I walked out of there once a week feeling like I was floating in a bubble of peace. Fitness and peace. My body felt stretchy, lithe, and wonderful. Never mind that I gained 13 pounds last year. It wasn’t yoga’s fault.

I have to say, I love feeling fit and healthy. I love exercises that tone my muscles, which is why Pilates and yoga are right up my alley. The stretching, the crunches, holding poses until your muscles are burning–I love that challenge. I’m even all for a little pumpin’ iron. Not that I’ve ever really done that. More like I lifted some weights for about 5 weeks one time and that was that. But what I don’t enjoy? Aerobic exercise. It’s my bane.

There are two main reasons for my loathing: I hate being hot and sweaty, and I hate being out of breath. That’s why the 2 attempts I have made in my life at becoming a jogger have crashed and burned faster than I could gasp “I . . . want . . . to . . . die!”

The first time I tried to conquer this loathing was with my friend Megan when I lived in Delaware. We jogged . . . twice. I think. Or maybe once together and once alone. And then we reverted to Pilates. What can I say? Pilates is like the exercise version of comfort food for me. And don’t think about that last sentence too hard or your brain may start smoking.

I tried to overcome my hatred of jogging again at the beginning of this summer. “Sweetie,” I said to my husband, “let’s go jogging today!” I sensed that the solution was to just jump right in, act positive, wear a cute outfit, and drag someone else along with me who could participate in my misery. So off we went. Keep in mind my husband has never really jogged (he’s more into the push-ups, sit-ups and such), so I was thinking we could have a nice little amble and be pathetic together. We hit the trail that goes along the lake. I ran for about 5 minutes. By then, I couldn’t even see my husband anymore–that’s how far ahead of me he was. I could sense death was near by the gasps racking my lungs. “He’s just left me here (gasp). . . to (gasp). . . to die!” I moaned, hoping for the listening mercies of any passerby. Unfortunately they were all in their little ipod worlds of jogging bliss, and didn’t seem to notice that I was about to go into cardiac arrest. I slowed it down to a walk and plodded forward for about 5 more minutes. I tried running again, kept it up for maybe 2 minutes, and then realized that my willpower had been reduced to the size of a pea, then squashed, then trampled on. Since I couldn’t bring myself to run, I kept walking.

At some point, off in the distance, I saw that my husband had turned around and was running back my way. The small dot became larger as he drew near, and before I knew it he had caught up with me. Hooray! That could only mean it was time to go home. I turned around, but by the time I was facing the other direction, he was out of sight again, dangit. And then I realized that “going home” meant covering the same distance I had just come! Who knew that picking up your own legs could be so difficult? I started to wonder if God had accidentally made my kneecaps out of lead instead of bone. Weren’t they feeling suspiciously heavy?

After agonies untold, I could finally see the end of the trail. And there was my smiling husband, jogging back towards me yet again in order to get me through the final little bit. And I ask myself–is this fair?? He’s never jogged, and yet he has no problem running for 35 minutes straight? At a fast pace?? Smiling all along his merry little way??? I thought the plan was to be pathetic together! Not for him to be competent and athletic and me to be pathetic all by myself!

And that was the last time I jogged.

Last weekend I said to him “Remember that one time we jogged?” to which he promptly responded “Oh yeah–hey, that was a lot of fun!” And that’s all I have to say about that.

Do I want the hot jogger buns? Do I want the attractive rippling calves? Yes. But do I want to feel like I’m about to drown in a pool of sweat due to lung failure? Not so much.

Enough backstory–let’s get to the meat of what’s happening in the here and now. My yoga teacher decided to teach a new class this fall that she calls “cross training,” and positioned it right before the yoga class to encourage us regulars to come to both. Now, I love my teacher. I also love the idea of having a hot, muscly body. So I signed up for both classes, trying not to think too much about the potential suffering to come–after all, when I made this decision I still had the whole summer in front of me to be free as a bird. However, the day has come, and that day is today. September 20th.

I’m scared. It’s one hour of aerobic exercise, folks. A whole hour!

There’s no question of quitting if I don’t like it . . . because I already paid. And based on my deeply entrenched inner workings, I put my mouth where my money is. If I’ve paid, I’m darn well going to get my money’s worth. So whether the experience is hellish or heavenly, my PayPal transaction guarantees I will be there, in my stretch pants and sports bra and ugly T-shirt, once a week. Now you know where you can find me from 5:30 to 7:30 on Monday nights, though whether grinning or grimacing I can’t say.

Will my Mondays through the first week of December be a haven of Muscle Misery, or Fitness Fun? Will my classmates be cold-heartedly competent and athletic and leave me in the dust of my demise? Soon, I will have answers. I’ll keep you all posted and try to keep any whining to a minimum.

What about you guys–what do you do to stay fit? And is it possible to make the transition from loathing running to adoring running? And how long do I have to run before I get the beautiful legs? (please tell me ‘once or twice’–please!)

Chicago, year #1: our apartment and beyond

Today is September 1st. Exactly 1 year ago today, our moving van was double parked on a one-way street and we were hauling load after load of boxes and furniture through a little courtyard and up a flight and a half of stairs. We had come from 3 years in the small town of Newark, Delaware, and were eager to hit the big city.

We have not been disappointed . . . but it didn’t start that way: my first glimpse of the apartment was dismal. We had caught our complex in the middle of a management change, so there were no on-site landlords. Thus, our apartment had not been cleaned. From the filthy toilet and bathtub to the grease-covered stove and oven to the dirt-encrusted window sills and sticky hardwood floor with mysterious stains and spots, it was all looking very depressing. To flesh things out (sorry, gentlemen please avert your ears) let’s just say it was also ‘that time of the month,’ which made the disgusting toilet seat staring me in the face, soiled and stained by the previous resident, an even uglier prospect. It’s just not what a girl needs at that time in her life. After hearing my husband’s enthusiasm for the place, seeing it in person for the first time brought me to tears. I held them back as I lugged the boxes up the flight-and-a-half of stairs. My husband could tell something was wrong, but I knew that if I spoke I would completely fall apart, so I held my tongue and prayed that the waves of disappointment and frustration would stop soon, or at least become more bearable.

Thank God I held my tongue! The waves passed as we continued to work, and that evening was spent scrubbing the place down. A short Vietnamese man on a bicycle showed up with a bucket of cleaning products and removed the layer of dirt from the bathtub. Management replaced our toilet seat on day 1 and replaced the oven a day or two later. They fixed our electrical issues and installed a missing light fixture in our bathroom.

My parents decided to stick around for the rest of the week to help us out; what that meant to my husband and me, they will never know. I seriously don’t know what we would have done without their encouragement and know-how. My Dad made almost daily trips to the local hardware store to get mysterious objects that did things like level the bookcases on the uneven floor and color in rubbed-off spots or scratches on our wood furniture. I may even know now that these objects are called “shims” and “wood markers.” Are you impressed? Anyway, some day I need to brag about my parents’ incredible handyman skills. They have remodeled every house they’ve lived in, building cabinets and beds, tiling walls and floors, tearing down and building up walls–wow. Mom, Dad, are you sure I wasn’t adopted? And could you please confirm that you’re proud I now know the word “shims”? It’s important for my self-esteem.

Dirt was scoured away, the kitchen floor was scrubbed and waxed, holes were drilled, boxes unpacked, and a wonderful trip to Ikea (which has made me a faithful follower) resulted in a butcher’s block to add counter space to our kitchen, shelving for the kitchen and bathroom, rugs for the living areas, and a myriad of other things that made our place more comfortable and home-like. I was starting to feel a lot happier.

God blessed me with a job 6 weeks after moving to Chicago. Broadway Armory Park is right next door, where I take yoga classes. The library, grocery store and El stop are within about 3 minutes of our door. I love our Thorndale stop, and I never want to forsake it for another. Here it is in the glorious Saturday morning light:

Our neighborhood is safe, and we live on this beautiful tree-lined street.

And I haven’t even mentioned the beach yet, which is only 2 street East and keeps our place cooler than most on hot summer days.

I have to ask myself–could it be any better? I don’t think so–at least not ’til heaven.

Here are some shots of our apartment as it stands, one year in. In the morning a yellow glow just floods the house, and combined with the smell of coffee wafting from our trusty pre-programmed coffee maker–well, I love it. We’ll start in the 2nd bedroom:

We split the livingroom into 2 areas; the computer area:

. . . and the main area:

We also split what was a huge dining room into an eating area . . .

. . . and a little library. This is my favorite spot to sit on a slow Saturday morning, with my Bible and coffee in hand.

My husband also loves playing the guitar in this space.

There is an open bookshelf between the two areas that houses both books and dishes. And yes, those are Baileys glasses. If you have never experienced Baileys (or any Irish cream, really) in your coffee, your life has not been what it could be. But it’s not too late for anyone! Don’t give up on yourself yet!

On Saturday we had a celebratory breakfast at our local diner, one of my husband’s favorite neighborhood spots.

We walked down to the lake . . .

. . . and then had a spontaneous day out and about in the city, which included seeing the movie “Inception” downtown (definitely recommend it), visiting the Art Museum, and going to an open-air ballet performance at Millenium Park. 

So a word of encouragement–if you have just moved or experienced a life change and are feeling overwhelmed, appalled, and despairing, that’s where I was 1 year ago today. And yet the past year has been one of the most peaceful and happy ones that I can remember. This city and this apartment has been my favorite place to live, my new job has been my favorite place to work, and this has been one of our best years of marriage.

Tonight my husband is in Oklahoma visiting our friend Tyler, and I’ll be here in the apartment eating some Arroz a la Cubana . . . but I’ll be pouring a little glass of something or another to quietly toast our 1 year anniversary in Chicago, looking forward to an equally awesome Year #2 ahead.