My Heart's A Fluttering ...

Easter weekend was wonderful. Sunday was a tad chilly but still perfect for potlucks, a gathering of friends and egg hunts. We made cinnamon rolls from scratch and slow cooked baby back ribs. With a house full of friends and the kitchen in full swing it was necessary to throw open the windows and let the chilly outdoors in. What a perfect way to celebrate the season of renewal.

Thankfully I finished my daughters' Easter dresses (just in the nick of time). I'm still knitting for our neighbor's baby born yesterday. One bonnet and one bootie complete, one bootie to go. I expect to finish tonight ... just in time for the baby to arrive home.

And speaking of renewal ... this week also harbored some minor health concerns. After nearly a year's respite my heart issues have returned. I've had a week of near constant palpitations. Honestly, other than the odd rhythm and pounding of my heart, I feel fine. But the frequency and force of the palpitations is disconcerting. So I'll be visiting my cardiologist on Thursday to make sure things remain a'okay. Strangely enough I had severe palpitations around the same time last year. I can't help but wonder if there is a seasonal component. Or perhaps it's hormonal. And no, I'm not feeling particularly stressed or anxious. This body is a mysterious contraption. Who knows what it's thinking.

Last year my palpitations ceased when I began triathlon training. Assuming I have my doctor's blessing I will attempt the same cure this year. I'm going to drag my twelve -year-old son along for the ride. After all it's always more fun to train with a partner!

Today it snowed (so much for Spring!). But, just like last year, I will be the crocuses standing strong against the elements. Meditation, yoga, exercise, healthy eating and positive thought ... what else can I do?

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Today is my husband's birthday... the big four two. Happy Birthday Daddy! Maybe you're the reason my heart's fluttering away. ;o)

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Race Day!

This weekend I completed my first triathlon: a 1300 yard swim (downstream), 12 mile bike ride and 3.1 mile run. I did great in the swim and was the second woman out of the water in my heat. I actually ran to the transition site like a real triathlete. I pulled my wet suit off like a pro. This is cake! Then came the bike. Mountain bikes with knobby tires are not known for speed. Mountain bikes with 37-year-old novices are really not known for speed. I could gain on people on the hills but when it came to the downhill portion I was blown out of the water (so to speak). Then back to the transition area. The bike rack was full. A kindly gentleman who already finished his race took my bike for me and hung it up (yes - cheating slightly but hey I was hardly in the front of pack). Finally the run. I actually passed four people on the run. Four really really slow people but four people nonetheless. Of course a thirteen-year-old blew by me. Because of course they do that to you, to mortify you - your age is written in big black permanent marker on your calf. My age is still there today - after a shower and a trip to the pool with the kids. Three seven. I might as well have the word “dork” penciled in next to it and other things like “weekend warrior” and “holy cats am I sore today!”

At any rate I finished the race and under two hours to boot. Then hubbie and I went to look at road bikes. Because in my next race I want to have a road bike. Yes you heard me. My next race. When? Where? I do not know. I may be getting older but I’m not going down without a fight. This exercise has done me a world of good. My heart is loving it. Now if I can just find two-grand worth of change in the couch cushions...

Just Like Riding a Bike

The most difficult thing about triathlon training is fitting workouts into my schedule. Yesterday was a swimming day. I was also supposed to bike but that’s a different story. I squeezed my swim into the 1.5 hours of my daughter’s dance lesson. She has dance at the athletic club. The club has a pool. Easy, right? Wrong. We are not members of the club - we just take dance lessons there. So I dropped her off and hauled myself across town to the city fitness facility (which I dare say is nicer than the $200.00 a month club).

I quickly changed and hit the pool. I had to share a lane but was the faster of the two (that’s a good feeling!). I swam the first 500 yards as a freestyle warm-up without stopping. Hooray! 500 yards is nearly half the distance I’ll need to swim in July and this is only my third pool workout. Looks like swimming is akin to riding a bike, you never quite forget. I finished my workout with just enough time to take a shower - the ultimate reward. The shower was warm and oh so relaxing. I could have stayed there forever. But I didn’t have a lot of time and cut it short. I took off my suit, wrung it out and covered myself in a towel. This is where things started to go south.

I try my best to be comfortable in the locker room. We are all women. All naked in various stages of bodily decline. What I really want to do is look around, wide-eyed, and survey the various body types. At the same time I’d rather not be surveyed and figure others feel the same. So, with eyes averted, I began to dress.

I did not pack a standard bra. Instead I wore a tank top with built in bra. The bra portion is a slightly darker peach than the overlying top and both the bra and top have spaghetti straps; it’s made to look as if you are wearing two tanks instead of one. Yes, I am just that hip. I turned the top inside out, arranged the bra and top appropriately, stuck my arms through the holes and pulled it over my head. But I was still sopping wet. The top was lycra. It curled up into a tangled mess and refused to go any further. Like a dog reluctant to go to the vet; all brakes were on. I was standing there, my arms stuck over my head, boobs exposed, belly hanging out and nothing but a towel around my waist. I couldn’t get the thing to go up or down. I performed a gyrating dance but the top still wouldn’t budge. I didn’t want people looking at me and there I was in a spectacular locker room performance. One, Two, Eyes on You! All I needed was tassels to complete the effect (and no my body doesn't look like that - perhaps if it did I would've earned some extra cash).

I began to pray. I vowed to sign up for additional yoga classes to improve my flexibility and subsequent ability to dress. Please God just help me get dressed! That's all I ask!

I also began to debate whether or not I should ask the stranger next to me for help. Hello, we’ve never met but could you, um, pull my bra down over my boobs? My towel was about to fall off exposing not only the full glory of my nakedness but also the lovely bruise on my upper thigh that looks just like a melanoma. I could see how this stranger might be reluctant to touch me. I could see her calling the fire department to extricate me from my clothing. That was definitely not the way I imagined that strapping young fireman removing my undergarments. Definitely not. I elected to continue writhing in my own private agony and finally caught the elastic with my fingers. Bra pulled down I finished dressing and mortified I raced off to get my daughter.

Swimming may be like riding a bike but dressing is not. I don’t care if you call me a hippie - next time I’m skipping the bra.

A mound of luminous mulch rests in the road patiently awaiting relocation. She’s pulling weeds: grasses gone awry, seedlings from far away. She’s undoing the work of the earth and the dogs. She’s putting it back her way. Her biceps burn, as do her obliques - the toll of triathlon training.

Her friend arrives tomorrow, someone she hasn’t seen in eight years. Today she’s seeing her house through the eyes of another - an unkept garden, dirty floors, the filth muck of children and pets. It won’t all get done. She’s only one person. Her friend will see a snapshot of life instead of a pottery barn interior.

And yet she continues, pulling weeds, raking leaves, spreading mulch. She’s doing it for her friend, yes, but she’s also doing it for herself; to walk out on a crisp morning and inhale the aroma of mulched hemlock; the smell of decay and renewal, an organic reminder of the circle of life.

She inspects emerging perennials: hostas long thought dead sprouting from the depths of the earth, daffodils stretching towards the sun, bleeding hearts bursting from the soil in a fit of exuberance.

It occurs to her - she too is perennial: her aching musculature reaching for the surface like a bud from a bulb. So she continues; she keeps pulling, raking and spreading, running, biking and swimming. She continues knowing soon everything will be in bloom.

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For the past week I’ve been serious about my triathlon training. I ran, biked, swam and did yoga. I’m sore to be sure but feel great. I’ve also been very cognizant of my diet - limiting caffeine, sugar and processed foods. In addition I’ve been taking vitamins daily - a multi-vitamin, a magnesium supplement and a fish oil capsule.

And here is the interesting part - my heart palpitations have all but diminished. When I rest I don’t feel my heart bursting from my chest. Perhaps exercise and a healthy diet is what I needed all along - go figure!

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Today I'm loving my unkempt garden, my house full of messy children and my not yet fit body. What do you love?

Don' t forget to check out Love Thursday at Shutter Sisters!

Love Thursday

She’s walking down the hill in tight black pants; you can see every curve, every dimple. She’s had three children and it shows. One child is nestled in the jogging stroller weighing it down. She loses her footing and skids on gravel then regains control. She continues towards the trail. She is going to start her training. She is going to run.

The child kicks her feet and waves her hands, a prepubescent coxon yelling “Run, Mommy Run!” Then, “Stop Mommy Stop! Are there bucks here? Will they get us?”

Mommy replies with a huff and a pant.

Baby pips back in “Run, Mommy, Run!” deer already forgotten.

And Mommy runs. She runs and runs until she can run no longer. Mommy walks then runs some more. Her ankle is sore. Her chin, an asthmatic indicator, begins to itch. Yet her heart is holding strong. Mommy has a long way to go.

Tomorrow Mommy plans to swim. How many laps can she do? She doesn’t know. Fifty is the magic number. Fifty consecutive laps and you’re golden. No sweat. How many was she swimming last summer?

And so begins the journey of this slow fat triathlete, doing what she wants in the body she has now.

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Here’s to having a body that may be fat and may be slow but will take me where I need to go. Happy Love Thursday!

Toilets, triathlons and tutus

I did it! I did it! Thursday evening I rode my bike to work. It’s not far, probably four or five miles. And I need to get in shape for July’s sprint triathlon. The biking portion will be the most difficult leg for me. So what better place to start than by biking to work.

My initial ride did not come without challenges. The first of which proved simple - removing my bike from the hook in the garage. No sweat. This biking stuff is E-Z! Then I discovered the tires were flat. Really flat. I found a bike pump (note to self - thank hubbie for cleaning garage) but couldn’t figure it out. I thought I might have to give up and try again another day. But I persevered and low and behold - the tires magically filled. Not only did they fill but they held air. Hooray!

Next I searched for my bike helmet. Other helmets were hanging on their respective bikes. Mine was not present. That’s when I remembered the labradork and his helmet fetish. For those who are not aware - young labradors will chew, no, annihilate, helmets of any variety, ski, skate, bike, army - whatever. Only the dork was older now and his fetish had long passed. Wooo boy - it had been a quite a while since I’d ridden my bike. I tried on my daughter’s helmet - too small. I tried on my hubbie’s helmet - too big. But my son’s skating helmet? Just right.

I tied my right pant leg down with a piece of string and off to work I went (hi ho, hi ho).

Cars steered clear. No one wanted to hit a “special person” on her bike. It only took me twenty minutes to get to my destination.

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The next morning I rode home. The air was clear and crisp. The mountains were glorious sno-capped beauties standing guard over our village (okay so it’s really more of a town but village sounds wonderfully quaint). The morning was cool but not too cool. And I was the only person on my bicycle. Clearly I was “special.”

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The weather has been spectacular the past couple of days - warm and sunny. This climatic shift coupled with exercise dramatically improved my spirits. As a result I am full of ambition and yesterday made a snap decision to sew my girls tutus. Only I don’t sew. Don’t get me wrong; there is nothing wrong with sewing. I just don’t know how to do it. I can count on one hand the number of things I’ve sewn since 7th grade home economics. But I decided nonetheless to make tutus - no pattern necessary. And off I went to the fabric store. I bought 10 yards of tulle, 10 yards of ribbon and thread. You can see the results above. The second tutu turned out much better than the first (proof that I can learn from my mistakes). But, the real beauty of it is that my four-year-old loves her tutu, the first one sewn, blunders and all.

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After buying fabric I hit the hardware store (you know - the one that has depot in its name). I needed to buy a toilet repair kit. Now, before I tell you the rest of this story you need a bit of background.

In many ways my hubbie and I have a standard relationship. I, obviously, am the woman and he the man. But we don’t always adhere to conventional stereotypes. I, for one, don’t care for shoe shopping. The hub loves it. And, the hub will stop and ask for directions in a heartbeat (yes, really!): “Hey look! There’s a 90 -year-old foreigner who speaks no English and has ginormous hearing aids. Let’s stop and ask him for help!”

Me - I hate to ask directions. The same applies in a store; I’d rather wander from here to eternity rather than procure assistance. Why? I don’t know. It’s just the way I am. But, yesterday, in the interest of time, I approached a depot employee and asked for the toilet repair aisle. He replied politely, “Two rows over on the left.” Great, that wasn’t bad. Only he wasn’t finished.

He proceeded to ask if I’d like him to walk over there with me. “No,” I said, “I think I can find it, thanks.”

“Okay,” he replied with a strong upward intonation: translation - women and indoor plumbing are mutually exclusive.

I found the aisle without incident. I also found the needed repair kit and had it in my cart when another male employee came sliding around the corner. He also asked if I needed help. I said, "No, thank you," and walked away. He turned and immediately left the aisle. I had the distinct impression he was sent specifically to see if I needed help.

They must’ve sent out an APB, over the intercom in a deep manly voice, a voice so low that women can not hear its timber: “Attention all units, attention all units! Unmanned woman in plumbing aisle. I repeat unmanned woman in plumbing aisle! She is considered unknowledgeable and dangerous. I repeat unknowledgeable and dangerous! Must lure back to garden department ASAP.”

As I wanted to buy flowers I went directly to the garden department after my plumbing adventure. I could just see them, those men, in the break room, all high fives and slapping asses, maybe some towels snaps too. “Way to go Larry! Way to herd that woman back to her place. The flush valves are once again safe and order has been restored! Long live men and plumbing. ” And truth-be-told I’d rather not join their crew as I prefer my butt crack inside my pants. But, hey, that’s just me.

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The toilet repair kit is sitting in my kitchen, superseded by tutus. I’ll let you know how the installation goes.