All I Need to Know in Marriage and Motherhood, I Learned from My Dog Trainer-
A progressive revelation of life and dogs
Step One: Admit It
I am not sure how it happened. I am not certain of the time and place that I lost control f my home. I will tell you this: the evening before I gave in and placed a phone call to my current dog trainer, I walked into the kitchen to find, Max, our family’s “gia - normous” Yorkshire terrier on top of the counter high kitchen table attempting to wrestle a hot dog from my four year old. One end of said hot dog was in each of their mouths and the four year old was attempting to scream through gritted teeth at Max, who in turn was in a full hind-end-down pull position. I stood frozen attempting to process the hot dog war in front of me. “Impossible “ I thought. It is official. I’ve lost control. I need help”
Max has been a part of our family for the last six years. If it was not for his furry little Ewok face he would never have survived my husband. Bad dog? You have no idea.
We purchased Max from a reputable breeder. We are cursed with bad dog luck and our older (adopted) sheep dog, Oberon, had to be put down. He was no walk in the park either. Think “Clifford”. His ever- growing intimidating size gave way to his ever growing intimidating grouchiness. After he chased the neighbor up on top of his truck, decided to rip of a man’s pant leg (I guess he didn’t like him), herd the babysitter subsequently sequestering her on top of the couch ( despite her teary screams, the kids were asleep and could not rescue her ) , and finally “nip” a kid on the bottom ( guess he didn’t like the kid either), the vet urged us to put him down. He was an aggression time bomb. Oberon spent his last day happily devouring a Honey Baked Ham bone. My husband loaded the 120 pound “unpredictable and aggressive” sheep dog into the Suburban and stayed by his side as he crossed the “Rainbow Bridge”. I have to say, that was a very sad day. But the vet assured us it was the right thing to do in face of Obie’s increasing random aggression.
Eight months and two attempts at Old English Sheepdog foster rescue , a houseful of urine stained carpet ( should never have gotten the white Laura Ashley ) and two sad and puppy needing kids later, we found Max. Finally! a dog of our own. A designer dog at that! A sweet little dog our kids could grow up with and better yet, he was “ on clearance” from the breeder.!! Sadly, Max’s teacup champion bloodline parents were 1-3 pounds. At six weeks, Max was tipping the scale at 4 pounds. Not teacup material.
But he was ADORABLE. Truly, he was like a little four legged Ewok. A stuffed animal (the floppy kind!) come to life. The day Max came home was an exciting one. We were ready! Armed with smiles and love and arms, we couldn’t wait for Max . All the research was done! We found the newest furry addition to or family and he was about one fifteenth the size of Oberon… how could we go wrong?
The breeder sent a puppy packet and lists of instructions and directions. Do you know the number one cause of Yorkie puppies’ death is falling out of an open car door? Concussion. Number two is being squeezed to hard or being dropped by small children. Suffocation and concussion respectively. Do you know that small breed puppies need to be fed often? They could go in hypoglycemic shock. But these things aside, our home with two small children and a Suburban, was perfect for Max.
Who could have told me that that mostly sweet puppy (he refused to be crate trained, chewed and destroyed, yapped incessantly, ran away frequently, was a bed hog) Max, would take over my life? The hot dog incident was proof. I was out of my league. As the Trainer commented on his first visit, Max had “taken over and was running” our house.
Max only came when he felt like it, walked himself when he felt like it, barked incessantly when he felt like it, ate when and where he felt like it, slept where he felt like it and recently peed where he felt like it ( most often on the living room couches and carpet). Max was out of control. I had no control. This wasn’t behavior training, this was crisis triage!
stay tuned for more!...
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Long Run
I began my first marathon training almost three years ago. As a professional fitness trainer I actually believed I could train for those 26.2 miles all on my own. I lasted until about mile 15. The longer the runs became, the more I wished for company – a running partner, someone to pass the time with. I enrolled in a local training group with a chip on my shoulder and expectations set way too high. The weekly workouts were more than do-able but the long runs…those were my demons. I couldn’t let go of my competitive nature. I pushed harder, longer, faster and paid no heed to the coaches’ advice of “easy runs.”
Looking back, I ran that marathon for all the wrong reasons. I ran like I had something to prove, someone to beat. The closer race day came, the more pressure I put on myself to come in under my goal time. I was a strong, committed runner – hell, Why not? Looking back, I realize my greatest obstacle was myself. I finished that race. Painfully. Overtrained and injured and most of all angry with a sense of failure. It was not enough for me to complete it. I wanted more.
Let me back up a bit. I was 34 years old at the time and a mother of 2 children, ages 6 and 3. I battled constantly with the need to be the best in all I did. I was one of those Mom’s all the other Mom’s hated. I exercised obsessively through both pregnancies and once the kids were born, they were no strangers to the jogger strollers. I completed my second triathlon only 6 months after my second child was born. Granted, the nature of my profession requires me to be active, physically fit and motivated. My clients, mainly females and 30 something mom’s expected that from me. Then I hit the wall.
After the birth of my second child I was diagnosed with severe depression with a post partum onset. I became the incredible shrinking woman. I lost weight faster than was fathomable or healthy. I lost my drive and my spirit. I lost complete knowledge of who I was. I, the driven multi-tasker extraordinaire, lost the ability to handle the day to day needs of my children and family. I isolated myself. Struggled to stay afloat as the jaws of this unknown creature called depression sucked me deeper and deeper down and awa y from my own life. Doctors, therapists, psychiatrists. I saw them all and still do to this day. I resigned myself to taking daily antidepressants so that I could be a mother, a wife and a professional again. There was no medication, however, that would ever allow me to be ME again. The only thing I didn’t lose was running. Running was my sanity. I couldn’t plan ahead enough to make dinner on a daily basis, but I could always run. As the saying goes, I didn’t my know head from a hole in the ground, but I knew how to run.
I cannot describe the relief and joy I felt as my feet hit the pavement. Their rhythm was soothing, captivating. I felt free of my body and mind. I felt like I could fly. So I began to run more and more seeking that freedom, that release, the one thing I could still count on, my body’s ability to perform. It was with this desperation that I entered my first marathon. It was horrible. I wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t centered. I did not really know why ,I was running that race. I know now that I wasn’t really running that marathon I was just running away.
With a less than desirable finish time, injured and disheartened I vowed to begin training again. I would slow down, take more time to plan workouts and I would run that marathon again. This second time around is when I really discovered the value of the Long Run. I came to understand that it was the weekly long run that would test my metal. It was the weekly long run that would challenge me to define exactly why I was running. Over the weeks, I learned, albeit slowly, to let go of my single minded drive, the need to beat the clock. I listened to my coaches “Pace yourself. Run your own race. Take it easy. Enjoy.” My body embraced the distances, my mind relinquished the suffocating control of the clock and I ran. Once again free, ecstatic to feel my feet beneath me. My monster , “Depression”, remained with me. She was there as I laced my shoes in the dark of the early morning. She was with me on every run on every mile. She under-estimated me.
This marathon was different. I was training for distance and endurance, not for time.
Depression and I had the same talk every morning I would wake before my family began the day. Quietly the voice introduced fear, doubt and anxiety, “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?” The same questions repeating again and again as pulled on my shorts and shoes, inhaled a cup of coffee, swallowed my 100mg of bottled sanity, put my headphones on and headed out the door. Just one mile I would pray, just let me get through the first mile. And I would turn the volume on my portable CD player up as loud as it would go and let U2’s yearning melodies provide my feet cadence. Please, just one mile. “Where the streets have no name…”
I do not know if it is the same for all runners, but I know that my first mile – whenever, wherever, it is – is always the hardest mile. Perhaps it is even worse than the “final mile”. There is no hope of finish, only distance ahead. There is no euphoria or relief, just stiff legs and joints as the body warms to the pace of the run. I always feel like a puppet with missing strings during the first mile. Disjointed. Disassociated from the pavement and from my feet. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
But I kept running. Gradually loosening and owning my body as the pavement streamed beneath me. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
F- you I would answer. I am RUNNING.
The weeks and months went by in a blur. Training runs fell in place and provided me with a structure By which to live my life. Daily Agenda: 1) Run 2) Take care of the kids 3) Groceries 4) Car Pool 5) Dinner 6) Breathe 7) 8) Go to bed so I can run. At the end of each week, there it was. Glittering. Every Sunday morning for six months – it was on the training schedule! - The Long Run.
I came to long for the Long Run. The weekly test of strength and commitment. A demon that I could see and feel, The Long Run is tangible. It is miles and sweat and tears. It is life and I chase it. I realize. I refuse. I accept. I define.
I am not the sum of my prescriptions.
I began my first marathon training almost three years ago. As a professional fitness trainer I actually believed I could train for those 26.2 miles all on my own. I lasted until about mile 15. The longer the runs became, the more I wished for company – a running partner, someone to pass the time with. I enrolled in a local training group with a chip on my shoulder and expectations set way too high. The weekly workouts were more than do-able but the long runs…those were my demons. I couldn’t let go of my competitive nature. I pushed harder, longer, faster and paid no heed to the coaches’ advice of “easy runs.”
Looking back, I ran that marathon for all the wrong reasons. I ran like I had something to prove, someone to beat. The closer race day came, the more pressure I put on myself to come in under my goal time. I was a strong, committed runner – hell, Why not? Looking back, I realize my greatest obstacle was myself. I finished that race. Painfully. Overtrained and injured and most of all angry with a sense of failure. It was not enough for me to complete it. I wanted more.
Let me back up a bit. I was 34 years old at the time and a mother of 2 children, ages 6 and 3. I battled constantly with the need to be the best in all I did. I was one of those Mom’s all the other Mom’s hated. I exercised obsessively through both pregnancies and once the kids were born, they were no strangers to the jogger strollers. I completed my second triathlon only 6 months after my second child was born. Granted, the nature of my profession requires me to be active, physically fit and motivated. My clients, mainly females and 30 something mom’s expected that from me. Then I hit the wall.
After the birth of my second child I was diagnosed with severe depression with a post partum onset. I became the incredible shrinking woman. I lost weight faster than was fathomable or healthy. I lost my drive and my spirit. I lost complete knowledge of who I was. I, the driven multi-tasker extraordinaire, lost the ability to handle the day to day needs of my children and family. I isolated myself. Struggled to stay afloat as the jaws of this unknown creature called depression sucked me deeper and deeper down and awa y from my own life. Doctors, therapists, psychiatrists. I saw them all and still do to this day. I resigned myself to taking daily antidepressants so that I could be a mother, a wife and a professional again. There was no medication, however, that would ever allow me to be ME again. The only thing I didn’t lose was running. Running was my sanity. I couldn’t plan ahead enough to make dinner on a daily basis, but I could always run. As the saying goes, I didn’t my know head from a hole in the ground, but I knew how to run.
I cannot describe the relief and joy I felt as my feet hit the pavement. Their rhythm was soothing, captivating. I felt free of my body and mind. I felt like I could fly. So I began to run more and more seeking that freedom, that release, the one thing I could still count on, my body’s ability to perform. It was with this desperation that I entered my first marathon. It was horrible. I wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t centered. I did not really know why ,I was running that race. I know now that I wasn’t really running that marathon I was just running away.
With a less than desirable finish time, injured and disheartened I vowed to begin training again. I would slow down, take more time to plan workouts and I would run that marathon again. This second time around is when I really discovered the value of the Long Run. I came to understand that it was the weekly long run that would test my metal. It was the weekly long run that would challenge me to define exactly why I was running. Over the weeks, I learned, albeit slowly, to let go of my single minded drive, the need to beat the clock. I listened to my coaches “Pace yourself. Run your own race. Take it easy. Enjoy.” My body embraced the distances, my mind relinquished the suffocating control of the clock and I ran. Once again free, ecstatic to feel my feet beneath me. My monster , “Depression”, remained with me. She was there as I laced my shoes in the dark of the early morning. She was with me on every run on every mile. She under-estimated me.
This marathon was different. I was training for distance and endurance, not for time.
Depression and I had the same talk every morning I would wake before my family began the day. Quietly the voice introduced fear, doubt and anxiety, “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?” The same questions repeating again and again as pulled on my shorts and shoes, inhaled a cup of coffee, swallowed my 100mg of bottled sanity, put my headphones on and headed out the door. Just one mile I would pray, just let me get through the first mile. And I would turn the volume on my portable CD player up as loud as it would go and let U2’s yearning melodies provide my feet cadence. Please, just one mile. “Where the streets have no name…”
I do not know if it is the same for all runners, but I know that my first mile – whenever, wherever, it is – is always the hardest mile. Perhaps it is even worse than the “final mile”. There is no hope of finish, only distance ahead. There is no euphoria or relief, just stiff legs and joints as the body warms to the pace of the run. I always feel like a puppet with missing strings during the first mile. Disjointed. Disassociated from the pavement and from my feet. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
But I kept running. Gradually loosening and owning my body as the pavement streamed beneath me. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
F- you I would answer. I am RUNNING.
The weeks and months went by in a blur. Training runs fell in place and provided me with a structure By which to live my life. Daily Agenda: 1) Run 2) Take care of the kids 3) Groceries 4) Car Pool 5) Dinner 6) Breathe 7) 8) Go to bed so I can run. At the end of each week, there it was. Glittering. Every Sunday morning for six months – it was on the training schedule! - The Long Run.
I came to long for the Long Run. The weekly test of strength and commitment. A demon that I could see and feel, The Long Run is tangible. It is miles and sweat and tears. It is life and I chase it. I realize. I refuse. I accept. I define.
I am not the sum of my prescriptions.
Lunch With Dad
Sometimes when we are not too busy, we go to Dad’s office. We call him and tell him we are going to come see him and then we get on our way. As soon as we get going Mom says “Call your Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “But Mom” we say, “It’s going to take longer than 5 minutes.”
“Just trust me,” says Mom.
We call Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “Exactly 5 minutes.”
Here’s what happens when you tell Dad you’ll be there in 5 minutes.
Dad hangs the phone up and starts to get out of his chair but
He changes his mind and decides to make one more important phone call
The call takes a little longer than he thought it would.
He hurries to get moving but when he stands up, he drops his Blackberry
When he bends down to get it, the phone rings again.
Dad lets it go to voicemail.
He hurries down the hall but has to stop and chat with The Assistant
While chatting with the Assistant he realizes he is thirsty so he detours “real quick”, to the kitchen to grab a Diet coke with ice.
He likes the ice.
He chews the ice as he heads for the elevator.
He pushes the down button but then thinks he better make a stop at the “facilities” before heading down. He walks REALLY fast to the facilities. On his way out, he realizes his ice melted in his Diet Coke. It will “just take a minute” to get more so he heads back to the kitchen. The ice machine is over active today so Dad needs a second to clean up the mess.
Refill in hand, chewing ice, Dad scuttles to the elevator and pushes the Down button. This time he gets on.
Passing floor 23, decides to make a quick stop at his buddy’s office. He hops out on Floor 22 and takes the stairs back to Floor 23 (Whew!) but His buddy went to lunch.
Dad decides he will try to beat the elevator and takes the stairs down.
He has 22 floors to go but what the heck? He used to play football in high school. At Floor 19 Dad says his “bad knee” is acting up so he opts for the elevator again.
He makes it all the way down to GROUND.
He comes waving and smiling out to the car.
Mom parked in the shade.
The baby is sleeping and we are fighting.
“How About Lunch?!” he says.
Mom’s eyebrows go crooked.
“Lunch!” we say “Lunch” and Dad says
“ GREAT! Just give me 5 minutes, I forgot my wallet in the office…”
Sometimes when we are not too busy, we go to Dad’s office. We call him and tell him we are going to come see him and then we get on our way. As soon as we get going Mom says “Call your Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “But Mom” we say, “It’s going to take longer than 5 minutes.”
“Just trust me,” says Mom.
We call Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “Exactly 5 minutes.”
Here’s what happens when you tell Dad you’ll be there in 5 minutes.
Dad hangs the phone up and starts to get out of his chair but
He changes his mind and decides to make one more important phone call
The call takes a little longer than he thought it would.
He hurries to get moving but when he stands up, he drops his Blackberry
When he bends down to get it, the phone rings again.
Dad lets it go to voicemail.
He hurries down the hall but has to stop and chat with The Assistant
While chatting with the Assistant he realizes he is thirsty so he detours “real quick”, to the kitchen to grab a Diet coke with ice.
He likes the ice.
He chews the ice as he heads for the elevator.
He pushes the down button but then thinks he better make a stop at the “facilities” before heading down. He walks REALLY fast to the facilities. On his way out, he realizes his ice melted in his Diet Coke. It will “just take a minute” to get more so he heads back to the kitchen. The ice machine is over active today so Dad needs a second to clean up the mess.
Refill in hand, chewing ice, Dad scuttles to the elevator and pushes the Down button. This time he gets on.
Passing floor 23, decides to make a quick stop at his buddy’s office. He hops out on Floor 22 and takes the stairs back to Floor 23 (Whew!) but His buddy went to lunch.
Dad decides he will try to beat the elevator and takes the stairs down.
He has 22 floors to go but what the heck? He used to play football in high school. At Floor 19 Dad says his “bad knee” is acting up so he opts for the elevator again.
He makes it all the way down to GROUND.
He comes waving and smiling out to the car.
Mom parked in the shade.
The baby is sleeping and we are fighting.
“How About Lunch?!” he says.
Mom’s eyebrows go crooked.
“Lunch!” we say “Lunch” and Dad says
“ GREAT! Just give me 5 minutes, I forgot my wallet in the office…”
Friday, May 23, 2008
A Girl in a Skirt
I work out in Skirts. I got my first running skirt at www.skirtsports.com and I fell in love. I admit that it has gone a bit beyond "love". It is more like blind devotion. I love how I feel in my Skirts! I love feeling girl-y while I kick some serious butt on the concrete and in the gym. There's a secret power to my Skirts.I'll try to explain.
I recently signed up with a local training group that prides itself on extreme fitness training. I showed up for my first workout in the baggy gym shorts. I didn't want to stand out or appear "weak". The workout was intense and the group was nice but by no means "chatty". Actually, no one really talked at all. This is all a bit different than my studio where hard work,chat, stories, and laughing go hand in hand. The next few workouts were the same. Competitive environment, intense workouts, a few smiles here and there but no real connection for me to any others in the group other than "Hey".
I think I do pretty well at the workouts. I don't advertise that I've been a fitness trainer for the past 20 years. I am quiet and I participate to listen and learn. The coaches drive the group hard and the goal is to get the workout done. Period. After the first three meetings I started to feel somewhat lonely at workouts. This particular group is known for being consistent and committed. They have been hanging together, thrice weekly for over a year. I was definitely the Newbie.
You should know that while I pack a lot of punch, I am a fairly "petite" person. I just clear that 5 ft mark. I don't appear particularly "tough", but I am strong and I am driven. I don't see impossibilities very well. I just happen to see creative possibilities everywhere. I joined the "workout and die" group looking for a challenge. I found it. But it wasn't in the workout.
Showing up in to the workouts became a mental challenge. Sure, I want to be able to crank through 50 Kippling pull-ups as fast as the woman next to me, and I was willing to bite the bullet and work hard to get there. The hard part was how disconnected the group felt. Literally - NO ONE TALKED! It was like everyone showed up as a group but worked out alone. The environment was foreign to me. If felt devoid of natural interaction. In order to keep the tough workout image, it was devoid of the emotional spontanaiety I enjoyed in my private studio sessions. I was never more aware of the sense of community found in my women's groups. Hell, the interaction and sharing is what keeps my women going.
I needed support. I tried my Ipod - (Bono has serenaded me across many a finish line) but was quickly schooled ("we make fun of people who workout with those things). I succumbed to peer pressure and left my tunes in the car. And then it hit me. I was wimping out!I was fading! I was being over taken by the level of mental competition. I was the kid in gym class that no one was talking to! It was time to get my chi back. I needed back-up. I needed my hot pink Gymgirl Skirt.
I left those baggy black gym shorts at home. I retired the tough looking but completely impractical COTTON tee (for pete's sake, these people had me working out in cotton while trying to fit in!). Desperate times call for desperate measures. I showed up at he next workout wearing my fuschia Gymgirl and matching performance-fabric racer back top, and my sassy SkirtSports visor (black) with the hidden sweatband. I had a lot of sass in my step at that workout. I smiled as I crossed that asphalt and entered the warehouse/old school/no AC gym in my Skirt. I felt good! I was ready to work. Dare I say it? Unbeknownst to the group, I showed up with the whole Skirt Entourage behind me.
The heads turned and the mouths dropped open. And then it came. "What IS that????". Oh , I admit it...I took a few well placed seconds before I raised my gold Nike Sunshades (mirrored lenses) and said, " Well this is the GymGirl! Isn't it cute? And functional too!"
After the intial shock wore off and the head shaking ("unbelievable") and murmuring died down, I kicked some serious butt on that workout! It might be my imagination, but I swear I am the coach's target in that group. My pushups are never perfect enough. My squats never deep enough. I am assigned the "girl size" Olympic bar. I imagine that the worse part is that I can kick guys' butts while wearing a skirt. If anything, the Skirt made the pressure worse but I don't care.
I am faster, stronger, quicker and happier! I am this Girl in a Skirt, who remembers in the face of competition - mental and physical - that I have power! I am strong. I deserve to be seen and heard. If my battle gear happens to be a Skirt, so be it. All I know is that in that Skirt, I feel the power of womanhood behind me. I wear my skirts in face of being called "Girly". I wear my skirts in face of the possibility of being seen as "NOT a serious Athlete". I wear my Skirts for all the women who deserve to be seen and heard.
I continue to work out with the Extreme Team. Over the past couple of months, the ice has cracked a bit. I enjoy quiet conversations with the few women in the group every now and then. I appreciate their strength and athleticism. The men rarely speak to me. I also continue to wear my Skirts. I'm always stronger when I have some sass on me. I love the workouts and I grow stronger and more powerful. It still gets lonely at times but I come to appreciate the fact that instead of wimping out, I "skirt up". I keep wondering when they'll be strong enough to handle my running dress...
ROAR.
I recently signed up with a local training group that prides itself on extreme fitness training. I showed up for my first workout in the baggy gym shorts. I didn't want to stand out or appear "weak". The workout was intense and the group was nice but by no means "chatty". Actually, no one really talked at all. This is all a bit different than my studio where hard work,chat, stories, and laughing go hand in hand. The next few workouts were the same. Competitive environment, intense workouts, a few smiles here and there but no real connection for me to any others in the group other than "Hey".
I think I do pretty well at the workouts. I don't advertise that I've been a fitness trainer for the past 20 years. I am quiet and I participate to listen and learn. The coaches drive the group hard and the goal is to get the workout done. Period. After the first three meetings I started to feel somewhat lonely at workouts. This particular group is known for being consistent and committed. They have been hanging together, thrice weekly for over a year. I was definitely the Newbie.
You should know that while I pack a lot of punch, I am a fairly "petite" person. I just clear that 5 ft mark. I don't appear particularly "tough", but I am strong and I am driven. I don't see impossibilities very well. I just happen to see creative possibilities everywhere. I joined the "workout and die" group looking for a challenge. I found it. But it wasn't in the workout.
Showing up in to the workouts became a mental challenge. Sure, I want to be able to crank through 50 Kippling pull-ups as fast as the woman next to me, and I was willing to bite the bullet and work hard to get there. The hard part was how disconnected the group felt. Literally - NO ONE TALKED! It was like everyone showed up as a group but worked out alone. The environment was foreign to me. If felt devoid of natural interaction. In order to keep the tough workout image, it was devoid of the emotional spontanaiety I enjoyed in my private studio sessions. I was never more aware of the sense of community found in my women's groups. Hell, the interaction and sharing is what keeps my women going.
I needed support. I tried my Ipod - (Bono has serenaded me across many a finish line) but was quickly schooled ("we make fun of people who workout with those things). I succumbed to peer pressure and left my tunes in the car. And then it hit me. I was wimping out!I was fading! I was being over taken by the level of mental competition. I was the kid in gym class that no one was talking to! It was time to get my chi back. I needed back-up. I needed my hot pink Gymgirl Skirt.
I left those baggy black gym shorts at home. I retired the tough looking but completely impractical COTTON tee (for pete's sake, these people had me working out in cotton while trying to fit in!). Desperate times call for desperate measures. I showed up at he next workout wearing my fuschia Gymgirl and matching performance-fabric racer back top, and my sassy SkirtSports visor (black) with the hidden sweatband. I had a lot of sass in my step at that workout. I smiled as I crossed that asphalt and entered the warehouse/old school/no AC gym in my Skirt. I felt good! I was ready to work. Dare I say it? Unbeknownst to the group, I showed up with the whole Skirt Entourage behind me.
The heads turned and the mouths dropped open. And then it came. "What IS that????". Oh , I admit it...I took a few well placed seconds before I raised my gold Nike Sunshades (mirrored lenses) and said, " Well this is the GymGirl! Isn't it cute? And functional too!"
After the intial shock wore off and the head shaking ("unbelievable") and murmuring died down, I kicked some serious butt on that workout! It might be my imagination, but I swear I am the coach's target in that group. My pushups are never perfect enough. My squats never deep enough. I am assigned the "girl size" Olympic bar. I imagine that the worse part is that I can kick guys' butts while wearing a skirt. If anything, the Skirt made the pressure worse but I don't care.
I am faster, stronger, quicker and happier! I am this Girl in a Skirt, who remembers in the face of competition - mental and physical - that I have power! I am strong. I deserve to be seen and heard. If my battle gear happens to be a Skirt, so be it. All I know is that in that Skirt, I feel the power of womanhood behind me. I wear my skirts in face of being called "Girly". I wear my skirts in face of the possibility of being seen as "NOT a serious Athlete". I wear my Skirts for all the women who deserve to be seen and heard.
I continue to work out with the Extreme Team. Over the past couple of months, the ice has cracked a bit. I enjoy quiet conversations with the few women in the group every now and then. I appreciate their strength and athleticism. The men rarely speak to me. I also continue to wear my Skirts. I'm always stronger when I have some sass on me. I love the workouts and I grow stronger and more powerful. It still gets lonely at times but I come to appreciate the fact that instead of wimping out, I "skirt up". I keep wondering when they'll be strong enough to handle my running dress...
ROAR.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Making Eye Contact
There's a corner in the training studio that my clients seem driven to occupy. It is the only one usually free of various training equipment. A small window lights up the wall behind it. I find myself drawing these hesitant women out of that corner. "There's a whole room!" I tell them. "Take up some space!" Reluctantly, over a period of weeks and training sessions, they inch out of that corner.
Two large mirrors line the walls. It takes time for these women to turn to face the mirrors as they go through their workout routines. They tend to turn away, ashamed?frustrated? from what they see. They don't like making eye contact with themselves. When they do face the mirrors -mounted there to help them monitor their form, the see only parts of themselves. Legs, arms, hips all disjointed and full of flaw. I encourage them to see themselves as whole. To view their bodies in their entirety as movement flows through them.
We are trained to see our weaknesses and flaws. We are blind to our strengths. We see parts and not the whole and in doing so, deny ourselves the beauty within. We are afraid to step out of the corners and take up space - not only in the studio, but in life as well. And in our lack of self-vision, we deny others the right to see us as we truly are. We train to become "smaller", "thinner", "tighter" and in doing so, we lose the spontaneity that fuels the our energy, that fuels our lives. And it is not just in the studio. We begin to look for the "perfect way", the "right way" to perform and look and live. We search for it in media, in workplaces, in our homes and in our faiths. Our spirits become slaves to the "expected, the "tradition", the "norms".
What if we inched out of life's corners and actually took up some space? Who would we be if we made eye contact with ourselves? What would change if we were given the space to actually Be?
Two large mirrors line the walls. It takes time for these women to turn to face the mirrors as they go through their workout routines. They tend to turn away, ashamed?frustrated? from what they see. They don't like making eye contact with themselves. When they do face the mirrors -mounted there to help them monitor their form, the see only parts of themselves. Legs, arms, hips all disjointed and full of flaw. I encourage them to see themselves as whole. To view their bodies in their entirety as movement flows through them.
We are trained to see our weaknesses and flaws. We are blind to our strengths. We see parts and not the whole and in doing so, deny ourselves the beauty within. We are afraid to step out of the corners and take up space - not only in the studio, but in life as well. And in our lack of self-vision, we deny others the right to see us as we truly are. We train to become "smaller", "thinner", "tighter" and in doing so, we lose the spontaneity that fuels the our energy, that fuels our lives. And it is not just in the studio. We begin to look for the "perfect way", the "right way" to perform and look and live. We search for it in media, in workplaces, in our homes and in our faiths. Our spirits become slaves to the "expected, the "tradition", the "norms".
What if we inched out of life's corners and actually took up some space? Who would we be if we made eye contact with ourselves? What would change if we were given the space to actually Be?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The Circuit
I am not quite sure what to expect as I wait. The sun dripping randomly through the clouds in the early afternoon. A soft breeze lilting through the nearby grotto encircling the Virgin Mother, arms permanently outstretched, welcoming,beckoning.
Sounds are still. The loud bell rings, shattering the silence and out they come. All dressed in their predictable plaid and school ties fluttering disobediently in the wind.
I wait, quiet at first, but then with more anticipation. On my toes and neck craning to find her. The noise and gaiety, voices alive with life and playfulness and freedom surround her. And then there she was. Shoes laces trailing, hair messed and wild, backpack dragging, smiling. She searches for The Eyes among the faces dotting the playground landscape. And then she smiles - she found Them.
And here she comes, running - a blur of a little school-girl, tousled and tangled and Mine. A flood of energy, she recounts her day in one continuous stream of breath. It is overwhelming and electric. Her words are lost in a din of activity. They rise to become a song full of life and energy. I feel my soul reach out and wrap it's arms around her. In these moments, we connect. Life flows equally between us as I reach out to hold her little hand. We float.
And with one quick laugh, she let's go, skips away out of my grasp, leaving to find another sixty second adventure. I breathe. I let go. I think: Miracle. I know: Mine.
Sounds are still. The loud bell rings, shattering the silence and out they come. All dressed in their predictable plaid and school ties fluttering disobediently in the wind.
I wait, quiet at first, but then with more anticipation. On my toes and neck craning to find her. The noise and gaiety, voices alive with life and playfulness and freedom surround her. And then there she was. Shoes laces trailing, hair messed and wild, backpack dragging, smiling. She searches for The Eyes among the faces dotting the playground landscape. And then she smiles - she found Them.
And here she comes, running - a blur of a little school-girl, tousled and tangled and Mine. A flood of energy, she recounts her day in one continuous stream of breath. It is overwhelming and electric. Her words are lost in a din of activity. They rise to become a song full of life and energy. I feel my soul reach out and wrap it's arms around her. In these moments, we connect. Life flows equally between us as I reach out to hold her little hand. We float.
And with one quick laugh, she let's go, skips away out of my grasp, leaving to find another sixty second adventure. I breathe. I let go. I think: Miracle. I know: Mine.
Our Red Tent
“In the ruddy shade of the red tent, the menstrual tent, they ran their fingers through my curls, repeating the escapades of their youths, the sagas of their childbirths. Their stories were like offerings of hope and strength poured out before the Queen of Heaven, only these gifts were not for any god or goddess - but for me.” The Red Tent, Anita Diamante
Eight years ago, I began my personal training business. I’ve been a fitness professional since 1990 and it was time for me to go out on my own. It turned out that “out” wasn’t very far – actually, it was my garage. I have three kids now but had only two at the time , and I had to be creative about juggling clients and children. Amidst the mats and bands and balls and dumbbells were a baby -swing and an Exer-saucer.
My little ones (ages 5 and 1 at the time) were used to training with Mom. I had worked and trained all the way through each pregnancy. The babies went from their comfy biosphere inside of my body to the warm and snuggly safety of the baby Bjorn and eventually baby backpacks. The children learned to roll, crawl and eventually walk in the midst of my clients and group exercise classes. We are a package deal – me and my kids: Team Blackerby.
Women’s Fitness is not only my specialty, but my passion. It is not that I don’t train men – they just aren’t my client of choice .My female clients? Now there’s a real challenge. I am fortunate enough to have a stable client base. Most of my clients have been with me for years. It’s not that I strive so hard to keep them; rather, they just don’t want to leave. It humbles me to realize that what began as a home garage based business has grown into an in- home studio that sees the comings and goings of 20+ women a week. These women range in age from17- 65+ and they have gifted me with inspiration and vision I would never expect in my life. Let me explain.
Most of my clients have been with me for at least 5 years - In five years, a lot can happen. But 5 years in a woman’s life…where do I begin? I have been here for first dates and weddings and divorces, preschool and high school graduations, long walks, first 5k’s and joyous 10k’s. I’ve been a part of their conceptions and frustrations, the births and the deaths, the love and the let-downs. I’ve trained them in searing Texas heat, in downpours and frost bitten winds. I’ve trained them to walk and then to run and then to run faster. They come to learn how to lift, and to carry and how to relax and release when the time comes. Duathlons, triathlons, half marathons, marathons, long runs and short runs and life.
You see, there is a big difference between a 25 year old and a 30 year old, a 35 year old and a 40 year old. Over the years I have spent with these women I have seen them grow and change and fight and struggle and succeed and keep fighting and keep struggling and keep succeeding in the daily grind of life: single-dom, marriage, motherhood, wife-hood, widowhood. It is an awesome experience. I have to tell you, most amazing thing has happened over the past eight years. My personal training business, fueled and nurtured by the commitment of these women, changed. It is now a true community of its own. Many of these women have never met one another but they hear about each other through group sessions and weekend workouts. Their unseen energy fuels my studio, aptly christened, Spirit Fitness. My clients and I call the studio the Red Tent.
My husband swears he can feel “weird hormones” in my studio, which is now located in on a private second level in the rear of my Austin, Texas home. Actually, most males, who enter, do so rather quietly and with a certain amount of hesitation – just a head peeking through the door. You’d think we were holding coven meetings in there. The adobe colored walls create a warm glow in the early mornings when clients meet to train. On one wall, a floor to ceiling photograph mural of a tropical beach reminds me of my West Indian roots. I believe in fitness for life so equipment is minimal. There are no fancy cardio machines. We lift free weight, dumbbells and kettle bells. We jump rope, hit punching bags and throw 10 pound balls. There’s a small portable stereo in the corner; we still play CD’s and tapes. There’s a television mounted to the ceiling (male advice) – convenient - but we never use it.
Down stairs is a rec room where preschoolers play if need be. A baby Boppy hangs on the wall in case a toddler needs some sitting support. It is quite common for one of us to yell down the stairs to extinguish an argument among a group of all of our children. We take breaks to change diapers and then return to bench a 45 lb+ Olympic bar. School holidays are crazy, but we make it work. We complete outdoor speed and agility workouts dodging toddlers and navigating baby joggers. Our toddlers do pushups, and “turkey get-ups” along side us. It is remarkable when 3 year olds can perform downward dogs and balance on wobble boards with ease. Monkey see, Monkey do. There is a bathroom and shower for those quick changes when corporate meetings are early and there are business flights to catch. We can go from Dri-Fit to business suit in the blink of an eye. Inside our workout bags are Blackberry’s, designer handbags and Huggies Baby Wipes. Our kids belong to all of us (even if you don’t have any) and to the studio and they learn to count by listening to sound off’s of our lifting sets and reps. Juggling? We are masters at it!
Now, don’t get me wrong. It is a pretty little space. And it is ours. Little curios and photos line the shelves that share space with Kleenex, hand wraps and foam rollers.
I’ll tell you this; the studio has energy of its own. Strangely enough, almost all of my regular clients follow the same menstrual cycle. When a new client joins the group, we let her know that her monthly cycle may change to match the studio’s. Strange. It has become a meeting place, a refuge, a meditative spot. A place where challenges are thrown down and met with hard work. It is a place to listen and learn. A place to find your legs, test your strength and spread your wings. The Pull-Up assist tower is a source of continuous frustration and inspiration. The 20 inch step-up boxes are always greeted with the evil eye. Most training sessions start with the same sentiment: “Let’s get it done.” Our gym t-shirts have one word emblazoned across the chest: MOVE.
In our studio there are things that are not allowed such as defeatism, self depreciation and consistent negativity. Shoot, we get enough of that on the outside. Grace is expected in all endeavors. And we seek to make all movements smooth and “pretty”-( hey, we’re women, after all). We’re edgy, fashion conscious, spirited and lively – in the most conventional and unconventional ways. We choose not to be confined and dumbed down to stereotypes. We are mothers, daughters, wives, CEO’s, CFO’s; at home Mom’s, school volunteers, teachers, business owners. Many times we are a melding of all these roles at once. But once we walk into the studio, each one of us is our own woman. Each and every one of us is a person in her own right. Consciously defined. Committed and driven to a higher quality of life and personal fulfillment. You may in through the door looking for a new body, I guarantee you this, you will walk out a stronger woman in many ways.
Spirit Fitness overwhelms me on a regular basis. These women come to me to train their bodies. They come for wellness and fitness. They have to make time and commit to themselves to be healthy, alive and strong in order to face the modern challenges of motherhood, career, and social pressure to have and be it all. They come to test their metal in the space of 60 minutes. And then they leave and return to the pace and rigors of their “real” lives. They come for support and return to their lives with strength.
In traditions past, women would come together as a community on a regular basis. Sewing circles, laundry days, harvests and canning fests were opportunities for female connection lost long ago. Today, I see the power of female connection and of the relentless desire women have to be connected to each other. Who ever thought I’d find that connection in gym workouts, long runs and event training? Ever wonder how those pioneer women made it? They had each other.
Sisterhood, Sister. Don’t underestimate it.
“In the ruddy shade of the red tent, the menstrual tent, they ran their fingers through my curls, repeating the escapades of their youths, the sagas of their childbirths. Their stories were like offerings of hope and strength poured out before the Queen of Heaven, only these gifts were not for any god or goddess - but for me.” The Red Tent, Anita Diamante
Eight years ago, I began my personal training business. I’ve been a fitness professional since 1990 and it was time for me to go out on my own. It turned out that “out” wasn’t very far – actually, it was my garage. I have three kids now but had only two at the time , and I had to be creative about juggling clients and children. Amidst the mats and bands and balls and dumbbells were a baby -swing and an Exer-saucer.
My little ones (ages 5 and 1 at the time) were used to training with Mom. I had worked and trained all the way through each pregnancy. The babies went from their comfy biosphere inside of my body to the warm and snuggly safety of the baby Bjorn and eventually baby backpacks. The children learned to roll, crawl and eventually walk in the midst of my clients and group exercise classes. We are a package deal – me and my kids: Team Blackerby.
Women’s Fitness is not only my specialty, but my passion. It is not that I don’t train men – they just aren’t my client of choice .My female clients? Now there’s a real challenge. I am fortunate enough to have a stable client base. Most of my clients have been with me for years. It’s not that I strive so hard to keep them; rather, they just don’t want to leave. It humbles me to realize that what began as a home garage based business has grown into an in- home studio that sees the comings and goings of 20+ women a week. These women range in age from17- 65+ and they have gifted me with inspiration and vision I would never expect in my life. Let me explain.
Most of my clients have been with me for at least 5 years - In five years, a lot can happen. But 5 years in a woman’s life…where do I begin? I have been here for first dates and weddings and divorces, preschool and high school graduations, long walks, first 5k’s and joyous 10k’s. I’ve been a part of their conceptions and frustrations, the births and the deaths, the love and the let-downs. I’ve trained them in searing Texas heat, in downpours and frost bitten winds. I’ve trained them to walk and then to run and then to run faster. They come to learn how to lift, and to carry and how to relax and release when the time comes. Duathlons, triathlons, half marathons, marathons, long runs and short runs and life.
You see, there is a big difference between a 25 year old and a 30 year old, a 35 year old and a 40 year old. Over the years I have spent with these women I have seen them grow and change and fight and struggle and succeed and keep fighting and keep struggling and keep succeeding in the daily grind of life: single-dom, marriage, motherhood, wife-hood, widowhood. It is an awesome experience. I have to tell you, most amazing thing has happened over the past eight years. My personal training business, fueled and nurtured by the commitment of these women, changed. It is now a true community of its own. Many of these women have never met one another but they hear about each other through group sessions and weekend workouts. Their unseen energy fuels my studio, aptly christened, Spirit Fitness. My clients and I call the studio the Red Tent.
My husband swears he can feel “weird hormones” in my studio, which is now located in on a private second level in the rear of my Austin, Texas home. Actually, most males, who enter, do so rather quietly and with a certain amount of hesitation – just a head peeking through the door. You’d think we were holding coven meetings in there. The adobe colored walls create a warm glow in the early mornings when clients meet to train. On one wall, a floor to ceiling photograph mural of a tropical beach reminds me of my West Indian roots. I believe in fitness for life so equipment is minimal. There are no fancy cardio machines. We lift free weight, dumbbells and kettle bells. We jump rope, hit punching bags and throw 10 pound balls. There’s a small portable stereo in the corner; we still play CD’s and tapes. There’s a television mounted to the ceiling (male advice) – convenient - but we never use it.
Down stairs is a rec room where preschoolers play if need be. A baby Boppy hangs on the wall in case a toddler needs some sitting support. It is quite common for one of us to yell down the stairs to extinguish an argument among a group of all of our children. We take breaks to change diapers and then return to bench a 45 lb+ Olympic bar. School holidays are crazy, but we make it work. We complete outdoor speed and agility workouts dodging toddlers and navigating baby joggers. Our toddlers do pushups, and “turkey get-ups” along side us. It is remarkable when 3 year olds can perform downward dogs and balance on wobble boards with ease. Monkey see, Monkey do. There is a bathroom and shower for those quick changes when corporate meetings are early and there are business flights to catch. We can go from Dri-Fit to business suit in the blink of an eye. Inside our workout bags are Blackberry’s, designer handbags and Huggies Baby Wipes. Our kids belong to all of us (even if you don’t have any) and to the studio and they learn to count by listening to sound off’s of our lifting sets and reps. Juggling? We are masters at it!
Now, don’t get me wrong. It is a pretty little space. And it is ours. Little curios and photos line the shelves that share space with Kleenex, hand wraps and foam rollers.
I’ll tell you this; the studio has energy of its own. Strangely enough, almost all of my regular clients follow the same menstrual cycle. When a new client joins the group, we let her know that her monthly cycle may change to match the studio’s. Strange. It has become a meeting place, a refuge, a meditative spot. A place where challenges are thrown down and met with hard work. It is a place to listen and learn. A place to find your legs, test your strength and spread your wings. The Pull-Up assist tower is a source of continuous frustration and inspiration. The 20 inch step-up boxes are always greeted with the evil eye. Most training sessions start with the same sentiment: “Let’s get it done.” Our gym t-shirts have one word emblazoned across the chest: MOVE.
In our studio there are things that are not allowed such as defeatism, self depreciation and consistent negativity. Shoot, we get enough of that on the outside. Grace is expected in all endeavors. And we seek to make all movements smooth and “pretty”-( hey, we’re women, after all). We’re edgy, fashion conscious, spirited and lively – in the most conventional and unconventional ways. We choose not to be confined and dumbed down to stereotypes. We are mothers, daughters, wives, CEO’s, CFO’s; at home Mom’s, school volunteers, teachers, business owners. Many times we are a melding of all these roles at once. But once we walk into the studio, each one of us is our own woman. Each and every one of us is a person in her own right. Consciously defined. Committed and driven to a higher quality of life and personal fulfillment. You may in through the door looking for a new body, I guarantee you this, you will walk out a stronger woman in many ways.
Spirit Fitness overwhelms me on a regular basis. These women come to me to train their bodies. They come for wellness and fitness. They have to make time and commit to themselves to be healthy, alive and strong in order to face the modern challenges of motherhood, career, and social pressure to have and be it all. They come to test their metal in the space of 60 minutes. And then they leave and return to the pace and rigors of their “real” lives. They come for support and return to their lives with strength.
In traditions past, women would come together as a community on a regular basis. Sewing circles, laundry days, harvests and canning fests were opportunities for female connection lost long ago. Today, I see the power of female connection and of the relentless desire women have to be connected to each other. Who ever thought I’d find that connection in gym workouts, long runs and event training? Ever wonder how those pioneer women made it? They had each other.
Sisterhood, Sister. Don’t underestimate it.
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