Dare You To Do This Exercise In Your Office

Sure It Was Easy When You Were Two...

What is this woman doing? Looking for a lost contact lens? Swiffering the floor with her knee caps? Trying to sneak into the kitchen to eat a pint of Chunky Monkey without getting caught?
Nope. She's doing an exercise called "Bear Walk." And it's my exercise of the day.

Bear walk is basically a crawl but not the baby crawl we all did before we went "hey, I've got these two things sticking out in back of my knees! Wonder what they could be good for! Oh, wow, if I balance just right, I can reach the Oreos on the kitchen table. Cool." (nom, nom, nom)

So, let's "bear walk." Get down on your hands and knees. I really recommend not doing this on a concrete driveway or in short shorts. Now crawl forward but NOT by alternating hands and legs like you normally would. This time you're going to move your right leg and your right hand forward at the same time, picking up your knee and hand so they don't drag on the floor. Now do the same thing with your left leg and left hand. 

No, you're not done. Keep doing this across the room, then turn around and come back to start. That's one set. Sit there and rub your kneecaps while you say "that wasn't as easy as it sounded" and then do it all over again. If it really was easy, try kicking it up a notch by doing the walk on hands and toes. Feel it now? 

"Bear Walk" will not only amuse anyone who happens to be in the vicinity but will work just about every part of your body, especially your core (that's the part that keeps you upright and from having muffin top) and even your brain, since it's not the usual style crawl. 
Ok, your turn. Up off your ass and down into your "bear." 
 

Tales of the Golden Numbers

Well, that's a catchy and deceptive title. This post isn't going to be nearly as sexy as it sounds. One of my clients--or should I be like all the department stores and call them "guests"; why is that supposed to make me feel warmer and fuzzier about them than "customers" did?--passed along an article (thanks,Lee) about the link between Body Mass Index (BMI) and mortality (otherwise known as "death"; I should have made this the euphemism blog).

Cut to the chase: there is a link. People whose BMI is between 20 and 25 on average live longer. We'll ignore for the moment the jogger who runs in front of a school bus. Big duh, you say? Well, yeah, big duh because for quite some time we've heard conflicting reports not only on the validity of BMI but what the numbers meant. Some research indicated that as you got older, carrying around a little more poundage could be protective. All these studies were conducted by doctors over 50 who were attending weekly drug company sponsored pig-outs, by the way. On the other side were the researchers studying severe calorie restriction as the key to longer life--or maybe eating so little just makes it feel longer.

This latest research, reported in The New England Journal of Medicine, not USA Today, and thus relatively legit, leads us back to the Golden Number: a BMI of between 20 and about 25 (24.9, to be precise). Notice this research didn't just say "below 25." An important key to this is that, especially as we age (you know who you are), being a twig isn't necessarily any better than being a redwood. When illness hits, the body needs some reserves--it just doesn't need the seven twinkies you had for dinner last night.

 How do you know your BMI? The easiest way is to google "bmi calculator" and you'll get a bunch of sites where all you have to do is put in your height and weight and they'll pump it out for you. Math nerds out there, here's the full formula: Multiply your height in inches by 2.54 to get your height in centimeters. Make that meters by putting a decimal point two over from the right. Square that number (c'mon, if you're a math nerd, you shouldn't need me to explain. . .oh well, multiply that number by itself). Take your weight in pounds and divide by 2.2 to get kilograms. Now divide your weight by your height squared and, Bob's your uncle, you've got your BMI. Is it Golden?

The moral of our boring tale of the quest for the Golden Number: Neither a Modigliani nor a Rubens be. L'chaim!

Numbers Running

10,000 Steps...
30 minutes 5x week...
7% Saturated Fat

What would American fitness be without numbers? We're crazy for them; we make them our mantra; we get nervous if we don't know the "right answer." Me too, I'm afraid. I tried the pedometer route to mapping my 10,000 steps a day. Really depressing. That is, until I realized that one afternoon I walked up and down State St. about three times and the pedometer claimed I had taken 200 steps. Uh, no, I don't think so. I could have counted to 200 and I couldn't have counted all the steps I took in that six times six blocks. Pedometer wrong; my perception right.
Not only do French women not get fat, I really doubt they totter about on their Chanels with an AccuPed in their Louis Vuitton's (is that kosher, to wear Chanel and carry Louis Vuitton at the same time?). But Americans, we need numbers. My clients always want to know: How many calories a day should I be eating? How many repetitions of this exercise should I be doing? How many minutes, seconds a day should I be meditating(!)? And I don't really mind presenting some benchmarks because they need numbers. I remember when teaching writing that my foreign students, those whose native language wasn't English, always wanted me to diagram out sentences and wanted to know exactly what "part of speech 'should have'" was. And while I wanted to say "you don't need to know that; you just need to know how to use it" that wasn't enough: they needed parts of speech.
Fitness is like that to Americans: a foreign language. Making sane food choices doesn't come naturally in a land bombarded by Jenny Craig and MacDonald's ads. Knowing when or how much activity is healthy isn't intuitive when exercise means Wii Fit as a break from computer Solitaire. Breathing deeply, sitting quietly, well, how do you "ask your doctor if it's right for you?"
Right now, I'm battling with my doctor because my cholesterol numbers are "high." She, of course, wants me to go on statins; I say "maybe that's just the way I am." If I'm eating well, getting exercise, taking my fish oil capsules and maintaining a healthy (if zaftig) weight then I'm not real anxious to take a medication known to have all kinds of side effects to get the "numbers" exactly "right."
So, I'm going to try going on a number-free diet. No measuring out my serving of Cheerios; no marking every lamp post I pass on a walk as another 200 steps; no setting the timer when I sit down to meditate (ok, "chill out" might be a better term for what I do). Anyone up for joining me for 8 weeks? Oh, slap my wrist: Anyone else feel like doing this for awhile?

:) When You Say That

I continue on my quest to create an entire exercise lexicon out of emoticons: exercons, if you will. Wouldn't it be cool to just slap out a text message like: Here's your workout: lX, /\, __)_, (__.

What do you mean you don't get it. Well, lX is jumping jacks (stay with me here); /\ downward dog; __)_ cobra pose; and (__ crunches. It's a work in progress. . .

But besides those, what about:
@i@ bicep curls with dumbbells

__@_ chest press with barbell

o=\ stability ball pushup (ok, short legs, long arms, but don't expect Matisse here)

o___ corpse pose

Sigh. Well, it was a thought. Maybe if I downloaded a cyrillic alphabet?

Om-My What Good Abs You Have

I've become a great fan of yoga: not necessarily doing it but watching it on DVD. And not just any yoga, mind you, although I'm sure Kathy Smith is a completely acceptable teacher. Nah, for me it's Yee or nothing. Rodney Yee, that is.
Rodney, as I feel we've become close enough that I can call him by his first name, is a former ballet dancer turned Yogi. And while I'm not talkin' bear here, might be close to talkin' bare. Rodney is not a fan of heavy sweat clothes. Not even yoga pants. No, not Rod (getting  more familiar all the time). He's more a yoga-Speedo kind of guy.
I have absolutely no doubt he's a great teacher. It's just so damn hard to concentrate when he's in Cobbler Pose out in the desert--what am I supposed to focus on? The dunes? And I'd love to perfect my Downward Dog but, golly, then my head would be down and I wouldn't get a gander at those glorious glutes. That long, shiny black hair isn't hard on the eyes, either.
He's been married a couple of times (at least) and there are DVDs that include his wife--but who cares about those--and I'm sure he's a massive ego jerk in person--but who cares about that, either.  Just Yee and me. Together in Baby Cobra again.

Pay No Attention To That Flab Behind The Curtain

So I've--as mentioned last post--got a belly. Here's my three tips for dealing with major or minor flaws:
1. Distraction
2. Distraction
3. Distraction

Yes, my dears, don't buy for one second that full honesty and transparency (Oh, my, especially not "transparency." Clothes should not seen through--unless you're Cher or Beyonce) bull.

I may have my chunk but my legs--well, just see the name of my blog and you've got your answer. If it weren't for the blue vein roadmap I've developed on them so I don't lose my way home, I could still rock a mini. As it is, you put me in leggings and a tunic top and I'm good. Not going to look 25, or 45 for that matter, but unless you actually grab my middle--which I really don't recommend if you want to be able to wear both your wedding and right hand ring--you're going to think "look at that girl, skinny legs and all."

And while I have little patience for treadmills, ellipticals, and spinning, I love doing planks and resistance training, so my arms gotta lot going for them too. While this blog will--honest to Gaia--really talk more about actual working out and such, that's my only tip for the day.

Oh, and did I mention I love yoga DVD's which will lead to another post soon: "(Rodney) Yee-Hah!"

Whose Body Is This, Anyway?

Not Me But Great Outfit!

Serial blogger that I am, I've ruthlessly abandoned--at least temporarily--my older blogs, GrandeDameIt and Jigger of Gin to wander into yet a different territory. I suppose I could post about fitness and health on GrandeDameIt but it just seems so wrong to mix fit and fashion (and forget using Jigger of Gin for musings on health, although I certainly like a healthy slug of gin as much as the next person).

After the small apologia above, I now get to today's real lecture:
How can I possibly be a Personal Trainer when I'm so friggin' out of shape myself?

Well, I've narrowed it down to four reasons or, like a Monty Python sketch, maybe five:
1. I'm a post-menopausal woman (I guess to be post-menopausal you kind of have to be a woman, huh). After a certain age, your body no longer belongs solely to you; it belongs to your hormones or lack thereof. Body has no respect for the number of seconds you can hold a plank or the number of pints of Jeni's ice cream you avoid. Body says "You are old. You will have more belly fat than an arctic Walrus."

2. I did write a blog called Jigger of Gin. I think that's self-explanatory. Drinking is not the best way to have six-pack abs despite that entirely misleading terminology; it is a great way to have a beer belly.

3. I spend so much time reading about how to work out effectively and eat healthily and so much time planning my clients' workouts using an iPhone app that just makes it irresistible to build the most kick-ass routine for them that I don't have time to work out myself.

4. I strained my back moving a large table top into my new office because I had too much pride in my biceps to ask for help. So there.

5. I'm lazy.

I promise *snort* that I'll do better--both exercising and blogging. Next up: How to Hate Your Gut but Love Your Body.