I know I already wrote a blog post about the continuing love affair with my home gym, but… the love affair continues. This must be the honeymoon period. Praise God!
I mean, there are a few things about it that I don’t like. Primarily, you have to be safety-cautious the whole time you’re using it. If you’re lying down, you’ve got to check that your hair won’t get caught. Every. Single. Time. (I smooth my hair back under my hands and just check its location. I’ve got a short-short haircut now, but it was harder before I gave myself the haircut.) (No, the home gym hasn’t pulled my hair, and thank God. I’m just big on safety to begin with, and I have a hair-pulling phobia that I call trichotillophobia. Big points to anyone who gets that reference! We studied Greek and Latin roots in middle school, and I actually enjoyed it. Geek alert!)
Second, I sometimes get confused when I lift it so I can slide on the cables’ attachment. The bench doesn’t always go back on the rails properly, so you’ve got to make sure it’s well-centered before sitting on it.
That might be everything, safety-wise. Regarding the hair issue, there are so many positions you can use on the bench that don’t put your hair in harm’s way, like sitting up or lying on your tummy. But I just worry about safety stuff. Usually, once I’m pumping a certain exercise, I relax a bit. But seeing as I’m going to worry about this every single time, I might invest in a shower cap, or something. I’ll figure something out.
But despite my raging trichotillophobia, I love the home gym. It’s been twenty years (or so) since I did weight training with dumbbells, and I can still remember how much I dreaded exercising my front thighs and my abdominals. With front thighs, I was trying to do lunges and squats. I always thought I was going to keel over and die. (Not really, but…) With abdominals, I couldn’t even talk myself into lying on the carpet to begin some crunches. And it felt like torture, and it strained my neck.
Everything’s ergonomic with the home gym. The singular focus on whichever muscle you’re exercising makes it feel so comfortable. And it works at your level. Crunches were too hard for me. On the home gym, I can set the bar to the exact level of my abdominizing abilities. (Wow, what an alliterative term!) And then I don’t feel overtaxed or intimidated.
I took my dad down to the basement and showed him some moves. He was duly impressed.
I might try to do all muscle groups in a two-day rotation. It wouldn’t be hard, because I don’t know many exercises per muscle group yet. Still working on “collecting” exercises.
In other news, I’ve been questioning my self-worth again lately. That seems bad, because I really want to believe that I’ve overcome low self-worth. But something unheard of happened yesterday. My eye doctor, Dr. Dreamy, flirted with me. Like, fer shizzle. He kept touching me in that way people do when they want to be flirtatious: a tap on the shoulder, a pat on the back… I’ve never wanted to get a raging eye infection more than I do right now. Does that sound weird? What about pinkeye? Is that going around?
And then he gazed into my eyes and said those sweet little words that every woman wants to hear: “Your optic nerves are very healthy.” (It was at this point of my narration that my dad burst into laughter.) [Eyeroll.]
He told me deep things, like how his dad died two years ago, so I had to be all feminine and consoling. He asked if I want to get the vaccine, and I said most definitely because I want to visit my best friend, Sonya, in Prague again.
He said, “Isn’t that where The Sound of Music takes place?”
And I said, “No, I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to google it,” he declared. He wheeled over to his nearby laptop and looked it up.
“Vienna? That just came into my mind,” I said. (I’m googling now, though, and apparently, it’s Salzburg. Hey, I had the right country! For me, that’s amazing.)
“What was their family name?” he asked.
“The Von Trapps. I read the book in middle school. The movie was a lot different. There was more spontaneous singing.” I giggled. So help me, God, I giggled.
He laughed. It was a mellifluous sound that wrapped around my heart and squeezed it bloodless. “Ah, yes. Oh, look, they have a place in Vermont. That’s where they moved to, right?”
“I guess so. My dad went to college with one of them,” I bragged. (This is true.)
“Oh yeah? Where’d he go to college?”
He’d never heard of Earlham, so I told him it’s in Indiana.
“Look at all these great places in Vermont,” he gushed. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to travel there?”
YES. Let’s do this.
“I’ve never been to New England,” I said.
“But you’ve been to Prague? That’s awesome.”
“Twice,” I bragged. Geez, he really brought out my inner braggart.
I see Dr. Dreamy once every four or five years. Way way way back when I first saw him, which might’ve been around… oh… I have no clue… I looked him up online and found evidence that he’s married. Whether he’s still married, I don’t know, and I probably won’t bother to look it up. Hey, flirting is good for the soul, and if his wife doesn’t mind, then I’m in favor of it.
But my sense is that he flirts whenever he can. I was wondering why they sent me new paperwork to fill out even though I’m not a new patient. Ha! It was so Dr. Dreamy could see if I’m married, single, divorced, or separated. (Single, party of one!)
But God bless him! Here’s the thing: men never think I’m flirt-worthy. This is the first time anyone’s ever flirted with me. A few guys have come onto me online, like when I play Words With Friends on social media, but I don’t know them in real life, so let’s not count that. (And come on, I never put ugly photos of myself online. I only share the gorgeous ones.) This guy, my eye doctor, Dr. Dreamy, considers me to be flirt-worthy. And that just rocks my world! And he likes me, as if he thinks of me as a friend and confidante. Sweet!!
It’s made me realize that I need to start seeing myself as being flirt-worthy and sexy and all that. I don’t see myself that way, and I never have, and I’ve always gotten the vibe that guys don’t see me that way, either. That’s gotta change. How else will I ever find a boyfriend, right? I need to see myself as being… hot. Yeah. I’m smokin’. I just touched my forearm with my fingertip and I got burned. Yeah! Fer shizzle, feel the sizzle!
Meg, you did not just type that.
Maybe I do value myself, but I just don’t know how to see myself as being sexy. If you knew my mother, you’d understand, dear reader. She used to admonish me for acting sexy because she wanted to keep me in a little box of virtue. [Eyeroll.] “Oh, honey, quit preening. You’re my innocent little girl.” Barf. I was just trying to be funny in the first place, if that makes sense. Like, oh, yeah, look at me, I’m so sexay. Just messing around, that sort of thing.
I need to get in touch with my sexuality, and since I’m going to start writing naughty erotica, that could help. [More uncontrollable laughter.] You see the problem. I don’t even take myself seriously. But I can try, gosh darn it! How did Aerosmith put it? Love in an elevator! Livin’ it up while you’re going down. There we go. Hold onto your seats (in more ways than one). Meg’s gonna get sexay, everyone.
I haven’t heard a word from Ash, and there are no updates. I’m… just sort of shocked, is all. I counted her among my nearest and dearest, and now I’m wondering if I was wrong about her character. Not that I want to believe that, but there’s a tendency to start looking for answers when none are presented. I just have to give her credit, though. It was her idea for me to write my memoir, and the idea really took off.
We’re iced in here in Louisville, and it’s been fun. Think cocoa. Carlene, my car, is buried under a solid inch of ice. There are icicles everywhere. They’re gorgeous. I feel like I’m living in the ice cavern from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.
So here’s to wintry magic! Pass the cocoa!