Thursday, December 4, 2008


This blog is great for warming up the area of brain where the writing takes place. Like an opera singer belting out, "Me me me me," or a pianist practicing scales, this is where the magic begins. (And if you don't crack up whenever you hear "pianist," you are way too mature for this blog.)

And you, my loyal reader(s), get to listen to me tuning up the drastically-approaching-my-deadline-and-I-haven't-got-crap-to-show-for-it guitar.

But sometimes, even when the highest note on the scales is attained, the fat lady never even begins to sing.

My theory is this. I've been spending a lot of time taking a lot of pictures lately. My brain is simply not a multitasker. Not only can it not perform two activities at the same time, it also needs to take a couple days vacation between each.

Back injury wise - my core is being twisted in gnarly ways by my physical therapists/Pilates instructors. Don't get me wrong, these guys rock.

An example - Susan, my Pilates instructor, goes to these machines that look like something from medieval Ikea and shows me to do next. She breathes in, exhales, engages all of her 587 core muscles and then tells me to do it.

Breathe in. . .OH. MY. GOD. "Are my exhales supposed to sound like mating seals?"

"No. Engage your core."

"ARrrrrooooooo pfffttp!!!!. Sh&*(&!" *flump* (Not sure how to write the sound of me rolling off the machine.)

Now I can't so much as sit on my lazy ass reading a book without thinking of "finding my diamond" (insert comment here) and "thinking of tightening my abs like I'm trying to zip up a pair of jeans."

Oh. And this is classic. Part of my "home exercise routine" is to find the most painful spot on my body (left shoulder blade where Satan's back muscle is located or anywhere on my left butt cheek), put a tennis ball under it and rest all of my weight on it. Point? "To loosen my supracalifragilistic muscle. This will really help on your bike."

BUT I did run twice this week for 2.5 miles each. Tomorrow I go the gym where I can pay $60 per month to let other people watch me cry like a little girl while rolling around on a pink tennis ball.

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