Last night as I was pulling out my clothes for the 4:45 a.m. gym wake-up, I realized I didn't know where my iPod was. And I still don't. After searching through the couch, in every bag, under every couch cushion, throughout the car, I went to bed mad. It was one of those mad moments where every single thing you come in contact with gets swirled up into your vortex of negativity. Why am I the only one who ever notices the dogs' water dish is empty? Really? five towels? for one kid? there's the spot on the carpet that is never coming up and the rug that got dirtied and never cleaned that was covering up the carpet spot is now probably ruined and no one cares but me. That happened in the space of about 5 seconds, standing in just one place in the house. And this went on through the house for a good ten minutes.
I woke in the middle of the night and the brain flicked right back into furrowed-brow mode of trying to recall where my iPod could be, and I reached the same conclusion as hours before -- I had to have left it at Mom and Dad's. But then the cat, sensing distraction, moved in for his terribly intimate cuddling session that involves all kinds of rough tongue on the eyelids, tickling whiskers up the nose, and incessant kneading of the windpipe (weirdo). I managed to drift back off for about half an hour during which I managed to have a fantastic nightmare involving Sam being thrown unconscious into oncoming traffic and me being frozen in place and unable to move towards her. And what's with the fish? I keep having little fish, swimming in the air around me, bumping in to me at every turn. I may need a shrink.
So when the alarm went off at 4:45 I was in seriously pissed off mode. Dude in the red hood hogged the bike I wanted, so after weight training that was not muffled by music, which meant listening to clanking weights (really? are you so exhausted you can't help but drop them noisily? then back it off five pounds and SHUT UP) and the incredibly heavy footed Frankenstein-monster-quality pounding of one man on one of the treadmills (honestly, it sounds like any minute the whole contraption is going to drop through the floor into the basement with him still pounding away on it), I found myself on that damn track listening to the heavy breathing of people running and not much else. Except Frankenfoot and Weight Clanker.
My poor little lost iPod Nano, in your electric blue with matching headphones, filled with Tori music, fitting perfectly in my armband and keeping me company and blocking out annoyance, where can you be?
I've already decided what I want for Christmas is the iPod Classic that will store 160Gb (according to Apple, that's approximately 40,000 songs) and cut off the Sirius/XM Radio subscription from the car I so rarely drive anymore. But the plan was to have my little blue friend sticking with me for workout playlists. Sigh. I think that moves me through both grief stages three and four: Bargaining, followed by Depression.
When red hood finally pulled himself off of the bike, I had 10 minutes left. I did have my earphones, so I could plug into the television stations while I rode. And here's the kicker... I started riding and put my hands on the bars to measure my heart rate to make sure I stayed "in the zone" and, lo and behold, there's my heart rate already 10 beats above the target before I've started pedaling . . thanks to walking the track. My nemesis foils me again. I can't keep the heart rate on the bike nearly as easily as getting in my hamster ball and walking round and around that stupid track. Curse you, boring track. Stop being so productive.
So while my iPod has only recently gone missing, my serious motivation for working out continues to remain so, which seems to be the majority of this entire year. 2011 has been a booger. I'm ready to have some holiday cheer and then bid this one a "don't let the door hit you on the way out" send off ASAP.
I woke in the middle of the night and the brain flicked right back into furrowed-brow mode of trying to recall where my iPod could be, and I reached the same conclusion as hours before -- I had to have left it at Mom and Dad's. But then the cat, sensing distraction, moved in for his terribly intimate cuddling session that involves all kinds of rough tongue on the eyelids, tickling whiskers up the nose, and incessant kneading of the windpipe (weirdo). I managed to drift back off for about half an hour during which I managed to have a fantastic nightmare involving Sam being thrown unconscious into oncoming traffic and me being frozen in place and unable to move towards her. And what's with the fish? I keep having little fish, swimming in the air around me, bumping in to me at every turn. I may need a shrink.
So when the alarm went off at 4:45 I was in seriously pissed off mode. Dude in the red hood hogged the bike I wanted, so after weight training that was not muffled by music, which meant listening to clanking weights (really? are you so exhausted you can't help but drop them noisily? then back it off five pounds and SHUT UP) and the incredibly heavy footed Frankenstein-monster-quality pounding of one man on one of the treadmills (honestly, it sounds like any minute the whole contraption is going to drop through the floor into the basement with him still pounding away on it), I found myself on that damn track listening to the heavy breathing of people running and not much else. Except Frankenfoot and Weight Clanker.
My poor little lost iPod Nano, in your electric blue with matching headphones, filled with Tori music, fitting perfectly in my armband and keeping me company and blocking out annoyance, where can you be?
I've already decided what I want for Christmas is the iPod Classic that will store 160Gb (according to Apple, that's approximately 40,000 songs) and cut off the Sirius/XM Radio subscription from the car I so rarely drive anymore. But the plan was to have my little blue friend sticking with me for workout playlists. Sigh. I think that moves me through both grief stages three and four: Bargaining, followed by Depression.
When red hood finally pulled himself off of the bike, I had 10 minutes left. I did have my earphones, so I could plug into the television stations while I rode. And here's the kicker... I started riding and put my hands on the bars to measure my heart rate to make sure I stayed "in the zone" and, lo and behold, there's my heart rate already 10 beats above the target before I've started pedaling . . thanks to walking the track. My nemesis foils me again. I can't keep the heart rate on the bike nearly as easily as getting in my hamster ball and walking round and around that stupid track. Curse you, boring track. Stop being so productive.
So while my iPod has only recently gone missing, my serious motivation for working out continues to remain so, which seems to be the majority of this entire year. 2011 has been a booger. I'm ready to have some holiday cheer and then bid this one a "don't let the door hit you on the way out" send off ASAP.
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