Ah ONE and a…stroke….stroke…gasp.

I was invited by my VBF to swim in The Cove again yesterday. And I was going to go. I really was. But that sinking feeling was there. The one that I felt the other day before I swam. The one that never really went away even though I enjoyed my swim in the ocean. The one that, if I thought about it a bit, could grow into a full fledged anxiety attack. I can just tell…

But I chickened out this time. I told my VBF I was sorry, and that by all means, she and my VGF should talk some serious smack about my chicken-ness while they were enjoying their swim in the ocean. Being the grand person she is, however, my VBF said we could get kick boards and do some laps in one of the pools our complex has access to. And she hates pools.

Relief. Big fat chicken squawking relief. Bwaaaaaaaaahk. Bwahkbwahk-bwaahk. Whatever.

View from the Garage

So I got on my erg instead. You know — one of those rowing machines. The one I talked the MoH out of I don’t even remember how many years ago. The one I used to “row” on regularly — oh, for about a whole month — with earbuds in place, the garage door open, and a fairly gorgeous panoramic East County neighborhood view that would lull me into sitting on the damn thing for at least 30 minutes. And because I did spend some time actually learning to row on real water with real people — eight, even — I could almost schmooze myself into thinking I was actually skimming over the water in the bay. While in my garage. I know. Everyone who wants to sell swamp land in Florida, I’m your guy. Yah. Uh-huh. Rowing Machine

That erg. The one I sort of have to peer at through squinty eyes to try and remember if I like. So I borrowed the MoH’s Sony disc player which also has radio stations I can tune to. I found some less than attractive stretchy pants in my closet I bought and have never worn because they’re aqua colored. It was a lapse of judgement, okay? I popped the garage door open a quarter of the way so the neighbors wouldn’t stare at me to let air in, and wiped the inch of accumulated dust off the erg.


Shoved the Sony in the back of my waistband… adjusted the earbuds and volume. Punched the tuning button until I recognized a voice…Oprah? On the radio? Huh.

Secured my tennie clad feet into the velcro straps, and pushed “reset” on the info screen.

Settled my butt on the seat, took stock of my inspirational view of the Grease Behemoth BBQ we still haven’t unloaded on my left, and the side of my car that I hadn’t realized was dinged up as much as it is on my right. Partial view of the nanny van across the street at twelve o’clock. Ready?

I Tried a stroke or two, and adjusted the tension.

Went back through my mental rolodex on the proper form and sequence….legs, arms, back, snap….okay….GO.

Hmmm…I don’t remember my stomach getting in the way when I used to do this. Suck it in, Betty. Oh, this is just a bit awkward. Ooofff. You can do it! Atta gurrrrllllll.

Oprah, “blahblahblahblah….”

Should my thighs come apart when I get to the catch, or the release or whatever the hell it is? Do I just not slide down as far? Ugh. Maybe I can kind of do an alternating shift to the right, then to the left. Belly to the left. Lard gut to the right. Ooo…The twinges where my incisions were are a tad gross. Eww…

Oprah’s guests, “blahblahblahblah….”

Ummph. Grunt. Strain. To the left. To the right. Stroke… Stroke. At least the freakin’ thing doesn’t squeak anymore. Ohmygawd…30 more seconds and I’m done. GASP! Ten….Five….

How Many Calories? I lasted five minutes. FIVE whopping minutes. Sweat, pumping heart, gasping for breath. FIVE. I didn’t bother to look at the “calories burned” screen because it was probably 4. Crap, I absorb 4 calories walking into the kitchen.

And the Sony ended up completely down the back of my drawers which upon inspection resembled some kind of a lid to my rear end. Not attractive. But funny.

The water in The Cove would have been much nicer. Bwahk…

But the pool is right down the street. So guess where I’m going today?

After I spend another 5 sweaty minutes on my erg.

Update:  10 laps in the pool.  No erg.  Urp.





7 responses to “Ah ONE and a…stroke….stroke…gasp.”

  1. Funny, funny woman! Man, you can tell a story. I was right there with you, puffing and panting and wondering where on earth that roll came from… right there in spirit on the erg, I mean. For those aqua stretchies, I’m afraid you’re on your own. 😉

  2. Ha ha ha! Well five minutes is more than one, and oh by the way I have some oceanfront property in Arizona you might like to buy?

  3. Hi there!

    I bumped with your site through a women directory..

    Hope you could join a community of women here: http://forums.her-desk.com and share your thoughts, and most especially, make friends to all women around the world! hope to see you there! 😀

  4. Hi Joie, I’ll check it out. Funny how my needle comes up in those haystacks!

    Hey Jenny, I’m a “Zonie” by birth and think I know ’bout that oceanfront property of which you speak. Snort.

    Hi Jen! Good to hear from you! Send me your lubs and I’ll work on those, too. But I have to stop cooking and eating first. Such a dilemma.

  5. FIVE is better than NONE. Right? Im guessing if you keep at it, you can get to TEN one day, BUT…maybe you need something more inspirational than OPRAH to “work out” to! Just makes me cry. There is nothing about her that makes me want to work up a sweat!

  6. Oh man, the ocean – I can relate. I am going to the ocean for the first time in March and I’m already anxious.. If that isn’t scary enough, it will also be my first plane trip, too. I’m sure once it’s over I’ll be glad I did it … or eaten by a shark or crashed into ground. I definitely prefer the pool, too!

  7. Hi ChrissyJo — Thanks for stopping by! Sharks? Nahhhhhhh. I wrote this very early on and am happy to say I got over my “issues” with swimming in the ocean, actually looking forward to it most days. The water grew too cold, though, and the seaweed became more than annoying. Now I’m just back to where I started. I need to get in that pool!

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