exercise

17 Days

Posted on by Beth Hull

On August 22nd, I hope to begin a new morning routine. It will go something like this:

6:30. Start to wake up.

7:00. Be out of bed (or else). Begin fixing breakfast.

7:45. Finish eating breakfast (at this point, I will have been finished with my peanut butter on toast and will have been avidly watching Z eat her two eggs, toast, bowl of yogurt and fruit, and glass of orange juice) (whoops, no I won’t. I keep forgetting I’m going to have to pack a lunch for her. Weird! So I’ll be throwing wholesome, handcrafted cuisine into a lunchbox). Brush teeth, wash faces (mine & Z’s). Get Z dressed.

8:05. Leave house.

8:15. Here’s where it gets interesting. Drop Z off at preschool. She will either a) cry or b) completely ignore me. I will either a) cry or b) speed home, shouting Huzzah! at every corner. Maybe it’ll be a little of both.

8:30. Hop on the elliptical trainer. (Or do Just Dance on the Wii, or, ugh, the 30 Day Shred.)

9:15. Shower.

9:30. Write!

Now, 9:30 needs some classifying. It isn’t as easy as it sounds. Because the world is full of distractions. So, at 9:30 I will write fiction. Not blog posts. Not emails. Not letters to friends. Not Twitter or Facebook updates. Not treatises on how I am going to write just as soon as I X, Y, Z. And Definitely Not Play Mahjong Titans.

11:15. Email, blog, Twitter, Facebook.

11:45. Leave to pick up Z at school.

Believe me when I say I am very much looking forward to letting the world know how this works out. Only 17 days!

She’s a Maniac, Maniac on the Floor

Posted on by Beth Hull

There’s a very good reason my parents didn’t name me Grace. The reason became clear in ballet class when I was six, and the instructor kept having us count to eight while we lifted our arms in (not-so) graceful arcs, and then count to eight as we lowered our arms in (not-so) graceful arcs. I assume the repeated exercise was because we weren’t getting it. Or maybe that was just me.

“I know how to count to eight. I want to leap and bound across the stage! In one of those sparkly frilly skirts! I want to be a ballerina right now. I’ll wear diamonds.”

I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t name me Patience, either.

I love to sing, and whenever I see a musical, I wish I could sing and dance together. It’s been my “wild” dream – the one I know will never come true. I think everybody needs one of these wild dreams, if nothing else than for entertainment when life isn’t treating you kind. Got a sick toddler you need to rock? Hum “Memory” from Cats and picture yourself slouching rhythmically under moody stage lights. Waiting in line at the DMV? They don’t have to know you’re smiling because you just nailed “Cell Block Tango” from Chicago and the audience is going wild. Long drive through Nevada? No way – you’re belting out “Popular” from Wicked and You Are a Star, Baby. Wearing diamonds, of course.

But none of that actually involves, you know, dancing. When my brother introduced me to Just Dance 2, I fell in love, then stole my mother’s Wii and bought my own copy of the game. Now, not only do I get to dance, I get immediate, objective feedback. And I can compete with my brother (and lose every time), which is always fun.

Favorite dances:

  • “Rasputin” by Boney M.
  • “Baby Girl” by Reggaeton
  • “Call Me” by Blondie
  • “Jump” by Studio Allstars (not Kris Kross? But it sounds just like them. Weird)
  • “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha
  • “Iko Iko” by Mardi Gras
  • “Girlfriend” by Avril Lavigne

I’ve only hit myself in the head with the controller a couple of times. Fine, maybe three or four times. Like I said, my name is not Grace. I haven’t actually knocked myself out yet, so I’m not too worried about it.

Z occasionally joins in. She’s “Baby” in the photo above, with 18 points. (She dropped the controller and found something better to do in administering injections to her stuffed animal friends.)

So I can sweat and be aware of every excruciating minute, or I can have fun and suddenly realize that my heart rate is up and I’m panting and sweating.

So. Jillian Michaels? Or a dancing video game?

Oh, daddy, I choose to dance. Even if flailing about with the controller occasionally bruises my forehead.