Tuesday, March 11, 2008
To GYM or not to gym...
The first step on a track back to a life of fitness is obviously; cute work-out clothes. So where did my ass sit in my sexy yoga pants, Nike shocks and a wife beater for 7 hours, not the fucking gym that's for sure- I sat at the Soy Luck Club and tried, through osmosis to work off the calories of my current sedentary lifestyle by watching the sweaty skinny people busting their asses across the street at Equinox. I figured sitting at a trendy health cafe where people eat handfuls of flax seed, do shots of wheat grass (instead of tequila) and carry their yoga mats like a new appendage on their bodies, would get me all in line with my CHI, which would obviously get me in line with my cravings for apples, spinach and almonds (for snacks instead of Cheez-its) which would lead to my sexy firm, sexalicious body- again.
Since coming to NYC I have treated my body like a trashcan. Consuming a lot of liquid (ahem, liquor calories) and acting like my restaurant reviewing gives free reign to bust ridiculous highs of calorie consumption. I mean, ridiculous highs. Empanadas/mojitos at Cuba on Thompson, sauteed mushrooms in sherry wine and creme brulee at Las Ramblas, a glass of wine here and there just so I can soak in the atmosphere and listen to fancy people talk about their fancy jobs, in fancy places, wearing fancy shoes, talking to their fancy, fancy friends.
I wanna be all, fancy like. I swear New York does that to you.
When I lived in L.A. I spent most of my days doing the same old thing in sweatpants and messy buns, I spent hours upon hours at the gym. My body was ridiculously in shape. I could climb a fucking mountain and not break a sweat. Salads were for lunch and dinner most days sans bread basket, breakfast was a latte with Splenda, and friends would meet and chat over a spinning class or yoga date. I spent hours meditating and creating a "fancy life" in my head, rather than going out and actually living one. I wore my Mala beads and carried my spiritual books because I was desperately looking for something that would show me that living miserably wasn't my inevitable fate, there was light and energy and blaaaah blah. And then I would spend the rest of the hours completely disconnected from myself wishing I could just feel happy, then I'd fall asleep crying.
Friends weren't living in it either and because everyone was so concerned with looking perfect in order to book a job, meals were rarely enjoyed and the stress one would go through before going out to meet (which means network) "friends" would span hours of shopping for the perfect designer top and looking "trendy", while looking so personally stylish and unique of course- under certain guidelines.
EVERYTHING was so contrived, the conversation, the image, the happiness. It was just day-to-day survival and at the time the only way I could get the endorphins necessary to smile meant, going to the gym.
New York isn't a gym city to me. Gyms are for cities where you don't need to tote heavy gym bags, but you can throw them in your huge SUV and hop back into your warm car when you're sweaty, turn up the heat and let your muscles relax, rather than walking through wind chills that freeze the tips of your hair and leave your bones crackling.
I haven't been concerned with my calorie counting because, I haven't been concerned with perfection, rather I've started living IN, my own fanciness, without searching so much for it. With that I suppose has come some imbalance, which has always been somewhat of an issue for me- one extreme or the other. Reckless abandon, or army like militancy. And that is something I'd like to get more of a hold on.
I don't enjoy having that extra little jiggle when I walk at alarming speeds to the subway, and actually today- I was seriously craving a banana, whether that has anything to do with the shape of the banana and some Freudian relationship towards craving sex, I'm not sure, but either way it was a craving for something out of the carb category which is at least a start.
With all that being said, I'm enjoying myself. Greatly. I've never been like many Americans who feel guilt in pleasure. I believe life is MADE for pleasure, not for strife or stress, disappointments and rough skin. Disappointment is all in how your react towards it. I don't buy into the masochistic views that in order to have pleasure you must have pain, bitter with the sweet, life should be work, work then you die. etc...and even if that is the truth, I've had quite a bit of bitter, that when the sweet comes along the laast emotion I'm going to let in is guilt.
I have no problem with eating dessert more than once a day, enjoying a restful nights sleep, listening to music for hours without watching the clock (my favorite right now is DUFFY, check her out, shes about to give Amy Winehouse a run for her money), writing and writing without any purpose, vacationing and the entire art of pleasure-seeking. AFTER ALL, you never know when your last day is.
Though, I'm incredibly motivated, voraciously work towards achieving, and am often so hard on myself to point of paralysis, the only way to start living IN your life is by, doing it. The success I seek in my life never ommits the enjoyment of my life, they go hand in hand for true fulfillment, for me. Planning, counting, outlines and to-do lists are useless until they are done.
So as I sit here in this Internet cafe writing my articles, drinking my green tea latte and staring at the model outside without incredibly small thighs, I mentally say thanks to God for putting my NEW APARTMENT on the 6th floor, for forgetting to put in an elevator and for technically being "at work" right now (ah the life of a writer, sigh.)....
Climbing six flights a few times a day is enough exercise for me now, until I get my penthouse with it's own elevator and a built in exersize room, stair stepping outside the gym will have to do.