A Pack of Starving Wild Dogs

  So, the other day I was rollerblading at the parkway. I sometimes stop after work if the weather is right. It's a nice 4 mile skate and if it's not too windy or too buggy, it's a lot of fun. At one point I skated past a flock of geese off the side of the path. They watched me skate past.

On the return trip, they were waiting, watching. I got flustered by all those staring beady little eyes. I hit a rock! I lost my balance! I went flying! Right into the middle of the entire flock! It was terrifying - they were all over me - flapping their wings, pecking and biting and honking. I thought I was a goner.

Wait. No, not really. Sorry to scare you. But as I skated past them, that's what went through my mind. What if I were to trip right there and fall into the flock of them. That's what they were waiting for. Would they part like the red sea and make way for my falling body? Sidestep skittishly out of the way? Would they step in after the fact to see if I was OK? Or would they descend on me like a pack of starving wild dogs and peck me until I was bloody. Slam me with their powerful wings and honk at me continuously until I begged their forgiveness? I haven't had any serious run-ins with geese, but I'm guessing it's the latter.

I skate on the far side of the path now - very carefully. I don't want my imagination to prove me right.


Honk!

Yoga - Not a Complete Waste of Time

  I went to a second yoga class. I documented my first try at it here, remember? So I decided to give it another try.  And my overall conclusion is the very one that you read in the title. "Yoga - Not a Complete Waste of Time".

I said as much after leaving the class. I was trying to express my indifference toward yoga while not completely insulting yoga, the people who enjoy it and all it stands for. In my eloquence (or lack thereof), I'm not too sure I succeeded.

I like yoga. Sort of. It's a challenge - balance, strength, overall fitness, all of that. Absolutely. Focus, relaxation, inner peace. All that good stuff. Really, yoga is great. But I've decided it's just not my thing. At least at this point in my life. You would think I would appreciate the relaxed nature - a big change from my everyday life which is rush rush rush, do this, do that, get it done, crap! I didn't get it all done. Rush rush rush some more. It should be a chance to breathe, to enjoy the challenge, feel my muscles stretching, moving, strengthening, blah blah blah. But I just can't get past the "OK what's next? Let's do the next exercise. I gotta move! I can't sit still! Let me move!" (And I didn't even have coffee before class!)

As I stand in half lotus, breathing deeply, visions of kettlebells and the power and ballistics of the kettlebell moves float through my mind like butterflies in the breeze.

As I bend into a butt-exposing stretch in the silent room, praying no one lets one rip, the sounds of a karate class - pounding music, shouted 'Yessir!"s, kiais and explosive breaths reverberate through my mind like a drum beat.

As I lift my arm in front of me and bend, extending my leg behind, hoping my non-existant cleavage isn't being exposed as I hop and shimmy in an attempt to stay balanced I feel the wind whistling past my ears and feel the wheels upon my feet as I blow down the parkway in my rollerblades like a groom who's late for his wedding.

And then, finally, the class was over. The relaxing stretch and burn was over. The deep breathing was over. The silence was over. I was free. Yes, apparently I completely and utterly miss the point of yoga. I've given up trying to find it. It's elusive, mysterious, out of my grasp.

I was out the door like a shot. Where's my kettlebell? Where are my roller blades? I . . . must . . . move!

Quack!

It All Depends on the Trajectory

  Snickers has quite a knack for coming up with deep philosophical questions. His latest went something like this:

"What's more dangerous - concrete or asphalt?"

I don't usually think about concrete or asphalt much. And when I do, it's not in terms of danger. But if you're a scooter rider who's taken a few tumbles it's an important subject. Do I aim for the concrete gutters? Or the asphalt? The correct answer is the grass! But if it's not available, which one is a better choice.

We came up with the following extensive list of pros and cons:

Concrete
Pros: Smoother than asphalt.
Cons: Harder than asphalt (but not by much).

Asphalt
Pros: Softer than concrete (but not by much).
Cons: Rougher than concrete.

So, is it better to slide across concrete when flying out of control off a wheeled aparatus or better to slide across asphalt? I suppose it all depends on the trajectory. Are you sliding low and fast like you're sliding into first base? Are you coming from up high and bouncing a few times before stopping? Is there any rolling involved? What about torque and energy, mass and velocity?

Suddenly there is too much physics involved! How about we just avoid the asphalt, concrete, bricks and sewer grates altogether and aim for the grass.

Quack!

Sometimes the Way Back is So Much Easier

Every once in a while I go rollerblading. It's a lot of fun, a good workout, a chance to enjoy the fresh air and I really like it. But occasionally it's not so fun. Like the time I went skating during flying ant mating season. Holy Ick Batman! Flying ants everywhere! Now, I know that they are just bugs and relatively harmless bugs at that, but for some reason they really ick me out. They just look gross! Of course, swarms of any kind of bug, even cute ones like lady bugs or those cute little tiny gold beetles would probably be gross too, but for some reason, flying ants are particularly uggy.

So, I got out of the car and saw a bunch of them flying around. Not so bad. Just a few bugs, right? So I put on my skates and headed out. Ick, a few bugs on my shirt - just shake them off. Make sure I breath through my nose, not my mouth. Don't want to breath the little buggers in. Alright, a few more on my shirt. And a few in my hair and on my helmet. I can take it. After a couple of miles I'd had enough. I couldn't take it! They were all over the place. So, I turned around and headed back. Return trip same as the way out - bugs in my hair, on my shirt, on my pants. I finally got back to the car and they were all over the car! Eeeewwww. So I opened the door and threw myself inside, slamming it behind me. Thank goodness only a few followed me in. Oh, it was so so so so gross. They were all over the windshield and the mirror. It was like Hitchcock's The Birds, but different.

Then there was the time I tried to skate in the wind. Now, I've skated in the wind before. It's a lot more work if you're fighting the wind, but it can be done, usually. This time was downright ridiculous. I swear it must have been blowing at 40 miles per hour. I didn't realize how windy it was or I wouldn't have tried. I got my skates on and headed out. And then realized Wow! It's windy. But I gave it a try. I fought and fought the wind. My thighs and calves and feet and butt were screaming after just a few yards. I kept trying, but if I slowed down at all, I would come to a complete halt and at one point even rolled backwards. OK! That's it. I gave up. After only 1/2 mile or so. It was pretty funny actually, I had to keep pulling over to the side (which I never do) to rest and try to wait out the gusts. But it was no use.

However, the way back was a piece of cake. All I had to do was stand there and let it push me back. I rolled pretty darn fast. As I was almost back I saw an older guy struggling with the wind. I just shook my head, then told him the way back was much easier. As I was finishing removing my skates about 5 minutes later I saw him heading to his car too.

Quack!

Who Says Ice Skating is Not a Full Contact Sport?

Some of this family likes to ice skate. Some of this family wouldn't be caught dead on ice skates. Some of this family is indifferent.

Sweet Pea and I enjoy it. I'm not an expert by any means but I can (almost always) make it around the rink without falling and like to think I do so with at least a small amount of grace.And Sweet Pea took figure skating lessons for about a year and she can whiz around the rink like a pro and has a ball whenever we go.

Snickers is indifferent. If he feels like it on a given day, he'll go. If not, he won't. As easy as that.

Doodlebug is also indifferent. He likes the idea of skating. But even more, he likes being anywhere Mommy is. So if Mommy goes to the skating rink, Doodlebug wants to come along. And if he has to put on a pair of skates and skid wildly across the ice to do so, he's all for it. At least for a little while.

And hubby? He wouldn't be caught dead on a pair of skates! Too cold. Too slippery. Too much exercise. Not enough TVs. Not enough computers. (But we love him despite that. His strengths lie elsewhere).

So we went skating. (All but hubby who chose to remain at home in his warm chair in front of the TV.) I helped Sweet Pea with her skates and she was off and skating while I worked on the boys and my own skates. Of course, as with everything else, there was an argument as to who got to have their skates put on first. We agreed to alternate. I laced up one of Snicker's skates, then one of Doodlebug's, then Snicker's, then Doodlebug's. All with a minimal amount of yelling, screaming, slapping, pushing, shoving and name-calling. Who says ice skating is not a full contact sport?

Then it was time for me to put mine on as the boys to tottered precariously around in cirles, ankles turning, bodies flopping, skate blades slashing at the air. I worked as quickly as possible, hoping to be done before the flying skate blades caused blood shed.

Snickers got on the ice first and took off. Not exactly like a pro, but he slowly and carefully started making his way around the rink. He was doing awesome! Sweet Pea whizzed past.

I lifted Doodlebug over the step and onto the ice. I grabbed both hands (which he insists upon), stood behind him and we set off. Sweet Pea lapped us. We got a quarter of the way around and Doodlebug started complaining that I was going too slow. And I thought I was following his lead. Sweet Pea lapped us again. We sped up. We got about half way around the rink and Doodlebug was ready for a rest. (I'm the one behind him, slightly bent over so I can reach his hands. I'm the one with my legs splayed awkwardly to the sides to keep from kicking his skates with mine. And WHO needs a rest?) Sweet Pea lapped us again. Snickers lapped us too.

So we sat and rested while he complained about his ankle hurting. I adjusted his sock and tightened his skates. Eventually, we got back on the ice. Sweet Pea lapped us again. When we finally got all the way around and back to the door we came in he insisted on getting off the ice.

"I am NOT going back out there!" And he was serious. There was no way I was getting him back on the ice. OK, fine. I don't think I can skate bent over like that for many more laps anyway.

Meanwhile, Sweet Pea continued to skate wildly around and around the rink, whizzing by like a speeding jet. And slightly slower, but with a determined look in his eye, Snickers also whizzed by, more like a propeller plane than a jet, but speedy nonetheless.

For the next half hour, Doodlebug and I sat in the bleachers and watched. He hardly complained at all. (Except about the lack of snacks in his hands.)

Sometime I'll have to tell you about the very first time I took Sweet Pea and Snickers skating. They were both literally hanging off of me, feet flailing on the ice, skates knocking into mine, bodies smashing into my legs. And even though I had not skated in 15 years. 15 YEARS! I somehow, against all odds, managed to Not Fall Down! I don't know how I managed it, but I did. Luck was with me!


Quack!