Walking Naked

This morning I followed through on one of those ideas I get during the night. You know how they always say you should keep a pad and pen on your nightstand so you can jot down those nocturnal flashes of brilliance? I was pretty sure I’d remember this one.

I have a treadmill that does everything but make me a sandwich. It has been in my spare room for close to a year and I used it faithfully for one month. I used it until I got a friction rash caused by my thighs rubbing together so vigorously. Well, naturally, I had to let up on the walking while that healed. That was 10 months ago.

Getting laid off at work – shall we just call it “canned?” – has served as a lifestyle jump start for me. I have set realistic short term and long term goals for myself and posted them on the wall of my home office. One of the goals is to lose weight. In that spirit, I decided to pull the treadmill out of its convenient upright storage position – so handy for hanging jeans to dry, incidentally.

So, last night when I surfaced momentarily from a dream and heard the words, “Walk naked, girlfriend,” I knew it was a timely message from God.

After my daughter left for work, I locked all the doors, put on a Paolo Nutini CD and slipped out of my jammies. I put on a pair of walking shoes and stepped onto the treadmill.

I walked for almost 20 minutes. It was almost one mile. (New short term goal: Walk one whole mile.) My big fat Lab, Jigs, watched the goings on from the safety of the hallway. There were a lot of things bouncing and swinging in that room. Smart dog.

Walking naked serves two purposes. First, feeling your body bounce, jiggle and flop while you’re trying to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other is extremely humbling and although no one can see you, you feel embarrassed at all that fat you’ve allowed to accumulate. Theoretically, that should be sufficient incentive to get back on there tomorrow and do something about it.

Second, walking naked and feeling your body part jiggle and bounce, feeling the air on your skin everywhere except for the parts that are hidden in the fat rolls, feels daring and sexy. Seriously. And I’m for anything that makes me feel sexy these days.

The sexy feeling was replaced with giggling when I thought about the sight in store for the EMTs if I should suffer a heart attack in that outfit. The first responder would crash into the house and run down the hall to see a lumpy pile of sweaty pink flesh wearing big white tennis shoes being licked enthusiastically by a big fat dog. There would have to be some sort of medal for that.

We're not meant to date after 40

I don’t think we’re meant to date after 40.

I think it might be like having children after 40. Sure, you’re smarter than you were when you were 20, but you’re also less patient, have less energy and are less tolerant. And your body is wearing out.

When I was 20, getting home before midnight meant that the date was a flop. Now, getting home at a decent hour means I may have found my soul mate. If my date yawns during dinner, I’m seeing matching rocking chairs in my favorite color.

And my tolerance levels are way down. If I guy suggests that we go Dutch, he’s out. If he never attempts to open a door for me, he’s out. If he won’t ever admit he’s wrong, he’s out. If he’s too passionate about politics, he’s out. If he tells the same story twice in one evening…well, he’s not out, but he’s on probation. I’m at the point when I don’t want to put up with anything. Don’t even think about setting me up with someone who smokes or is a know-it-all or a name-dropper or a tightwad. Is there anyone left?

One of the biggest turnoffs for me is a 50-ish man who is trying to hold back the clock. Ugh. They spend time sweating in the gym, flexing in front of the mirror and getting hair transplants. They are completely self-absorbed. They wear clothes from hip sports shops and take up mountain biking.

That brings up the apple analogy that I’ll share another day.

I feel comfortable being 48. I have had a great life and treasure my experiences. I am 50 pounds overweight, but still clean up pretty good. I’m fun and funny. I have good friends and a wonderful family. I have talents and dreams. I’d love to share my life with someone again, but maybe I’m past it.

Maybe I don’t have the energy or patience for it, anymore. I’m tired of telling my story and getting excited over first dates. I’m also tired of the roller coaster feeling of really liking someone and then having them decide they don’t want to date you anymore. Or, having to tell someone that things just aren’t working out. So much emotion and drama. Makes me tired to talk about it.
So I’m on dating hiatus. I’ve given it up for one month. After one month I may go for two. It isn’t as if men are lining up on the lawn, but I’m not actively looking. I’m not winking at or e-mailing anyone on match.com. I’m not encouraging anyone. I’m trying to not even think about it. (Hence this blog post! Ha! Not working, Krista!)

And when I get back to the dating scene, I hope I’ll be more patient. I hope I’ll give the dull, smoking name-droppers a chance. I’m not budging on the early evening issue, however!

The first day of my new life!

Welcome to the first day of my new life!
Late Friday afternoon, with no warning whatsoever, I was laid off indefinitely from my job as a receptionist/proofreader/telemarketer/feature writer/columnist at a small weekly newspaper. I was the “have Krista do it” person. Besides my work at the front desk greeting the public, I helped the news staff with story writing and fact checking, the production staff with typesetting, the distribution staff with deliveries and the advertising staff with sales. The paper puts out a little local phone book that is a huge moneymaker. For the first three editions, that phone book was my baby. I made the sales calls and proofread the white pages.
I gave the job 100 percent. I never said no to a project. I felt that I was an important member of the staff at the Idaho County Free Press and my dream was to someday move away from the front desk and my position as the “go to” person and be given a cubicle of my own and a spot on the news staff.
Foolish me. I’m now one of the multitudes of surprised employees who have been laid off. No one sees it coming. Everyone is sent into a tailspin. My experience is neither new nor original. There is actually a bit of comfort in that thought.
After quite a lot of tears and ego-soothing e-mails, I feel much better. I realize that I didn’t love that job, anyway. I wasn’t challenged and was operating with one hand tied behind my back. That is not what I want to be doing for the rest of my life.
Getting canned is like opening a door and letting the fresh air in. I have goose bumps and am gasping, but I’m excited about possibilities. It is the feeling I had while I was in college.
I’m even considering taking back my maiden name. After more than 25 years, taking back my maiden name feels like turning a corner and reinventing myself. I’m not sure I’ll do it. That’s a big step. Maybe I’ll just buy a leopard print bra and thong set. (If anyone had to identify my mangled body, they’d say, “No way is that Krista. In that shameless hussy getup??? No way!”)
So, it’s the first day of my new life. I’m officially “at work” right now. I’m dressed and am wearing makeup and earrings. Sure, I’m barefoot, but give me a break. I’m at my desk working at the business of writing. And that’s the plan. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to afford to do it. I’m not sure of the point at which I’ll have to get a real job. I still have to work all that out. What is important is that I’ve always wanted to work from home and do what I love, which is write. And I’m doing it. Right now. And that makes me happier than I have been in a long time.

Fit and trim after just two days of exercise

Break out the celebratory Ding Dongs! Two mornings of dedicated exercise before work. I know, I know, I can't believe it, either. Yesterday I did a belly dancing video and could hear my atrophied muscles' frantic cries, "No! Don't make us do that! We can't. Stop! Don't make us!" Still, I persevered and soon the cries for help were replaced with,"Ooo, now, that feels good, baby. Don't stop! Ahhh!"

And when I turned off the video, I heard a sexy, satisfied whisper, "Let's do that again soon."

This morning I did my walk video. (Who'd have thought a gal with a library of exercise videos could be so fat?) My glasses were slipping down on my nose way before the leader commented, "We're starting to sweat! I love it to feel that sweat!" Oh, brother. My life is mostly about avoiding sweating opportunities. I even vacuum my little house in shifts so I don't get moist.

Because I felt so athletic and fit after two days of exercise, I tried on the jeans I haven't been able to get into all summer. They are digging into my waist and most of my excess 60 pounds are bubbling over the top, but the things are zipped. I can't breathe, but the things are zipped.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Do I give myself an exercise break, or do I go ahead and pull out another video so as not to break my stride?