Kickin' This Cold!

I'm in MUCH better shape this week after my kickboxing class than I was last week. Okay, so I WAS sweating like a pair of feet in tights and heels on a 90 degree day, but the recovery period was much quicker. And just like last week, I felt sooooooooooo good. The following things really helped:

* Tony (who is German, not Russian. Whoooooops) was impressed with my fighting stance. Yeah, my hands are constantly up at my chin, so what? So WHAT if I'm perpetually in attack mode, what of it? So when Tony said "Niiice! You'll be ready to spar in 2 weeks!" I was hardly surprised. I DID grow up with 2 brothers and 2 sisters, you know. I'm like a cat: always ready to pounce. I was pretty stoked - and a wee bit scared - that it came pretty natural to me.

* I'm still pretty dern flexible. Okay, so I haven't bent down to even tie my shoes in a couple years (stilettos have no laces, you know) but shockingly, I still got it. Tony had me demonstrate a stretch and almost laughed when I sat on the ground and leaned all the way between my legs and basically kissed the ground. Aw yeah!

* We learned how to wrap our wrists like real live boxers! Sanna and I agreed that having our hands wrapped up made us feel more coordinated and controlled. Plus, I got BLUE wraps and they were totally cute with my pink fingernails!

* I have recently decided to abandon all plans to lead a nice, normal life and start training to become a professional kickboxer. I'll be the greatest senior citizen to punch the bags in the world.

The problem is, after class, we stood around talking to Tony and the cold I thought I had successfully squashed reared its ugly head and I left in a fit of hacking dry coughs.

I had a nasty little realization today, you guys. It's bad. So my sister Prinna is due with baby Alec, like, ANYDAYNOW. While yes, THAT is great news, I won't be able to get my germ-ridden body anywhere near the hospital or a newborn until my immune system bucks up and kicks this stupid cold out for good. Rude! I wanna snuggle that baby so much! I need to get rid of this stupes cold! STAT!

I'm going to take a kickboxing approach to this, I think. I'm not quite sure what that means, you know, because I've only ever taken a total of TWO classes as of yet, but I imagine it'll go a little something like this.

* For the stuffy nose: One-Two Punch approach. First I'll blow my nose, then I'll punch myself IN the nose.

* For the hacking cough: Breathing and Stretching approach. I'm going to have to learn how to breathe in air to my lungs, but bypass the back of my throat 'cause that's where the problem seems to be. Then I'll just stretch it all out until it's all nice and loose and then my chest won't feel so tight and congested.

* For the watery eyes: Hydrate. I know that as I sweat, I need to rehydrate. I think my eyes are just really sweaty.

* Finally, for the incessant sneezing: Two words. Roundhouse Kick. I'm not sure how that's going to stop the sneezing, but I'm pretty sure it's going to work.

So, I've got a plan now, and that's the start to any positive recovery. Now, I just need PRINNA to take a little tip from my kickboxing expertise: PATIENCE. (Get it, Prinna? Just wait a few more days!)

Alright, time to get this aged - yet still very flexible, might I remind you! - body to bed. And Good News! We here at Pharon Square continue to get pleas for help and advice, so if you have any questions or need advice on anything, Dear Crabby will be back tomorrow! Send your inquiries to pharonsquare@gmail.com. If you have any questions on kickboxing or treating a cold, though, I encourage you to wait a few weeks until I understand either enough to confidently make fun of your question.

First Rule of Fight Club

I'm struggling to write. Physically, I mean. My arms are all jelly-like and my fingers are shaking from being clenched for a couple hours straight. Them's the brakes of a being professional fighter, I guess. Tonight, Sanna and I went to our very first kickboxing class. We. Were. Terrified. We spent a good hour freaking out about what it would be like, if we'd be able to do it, what the other people in the class would be like, if there were going to be boys in the class, what to wear...all that stuff.

Being anxious, we arrived at the class a good half hour early. We sat in the car, nervously checking our phones and trying to research some reviews on the gym we were going to (an ACTUAL BOXING GYM). Finally we pysched ourselves up and walked in to the gym. First thing we see: two other girls, grasping the very same Groupon we were holding. They were like golden tickets, and we all had 'em. It was also a sign that they, like us, were n00bs. Yes! So a total of 5 chicks sat around waiting for God-knows-who to come in and whip our saggy scrawny butts into shape. While we waited, we sat watching some dude who may as well have been Rocky Balboa, punching the crap out of the bags. He bopped around, listening to his iPod. He looked positively focused and determined. I knew my inspiration.

Then he walked in. Russian Tony. He was late, and he breezed in the gym in a suit, and said "One minute, ladiezz, I've got to go change eento somesing a little more appropriate for bohxing." Twenty seconds later, Tony reappeared. "Let's get to wohk ladies, come out here. No shoes. I once [something non-understandable because of his accent] and my ankle just POP! Anyway, line up." We all uncomfortably lined up, facing a mirror. I immediately regretted my clothing decision which consisted solely of clothes that accentuated anything that bounced - purposely or not. Gross, I thought. I shifted uncomfortably as Tony stared at me and said "First eez the jab. Watch my stance." Turns out, I caught on. He pointed at me and said "Yes! Yes. Good!" I beamed, unfortunate clothes be damned! Five seconds in and my Xbox Kinect Dance Central skills are already paying off. Score! And only once did I make an uncomfortable joke (Tony: "Clench your feests like zees, and punch like zhat." Me: "What about this? What's this called" - I start playfully girl-slapping the air in front of me. Tony was not amused. "Zhat's nothing".)

I was like a troll in that class, though. I was roughly 3 feet shorter than everyone else, and I am, uh, sturdy. But I will tell you one thing: I can punch and kick with the best of them. And thanks to my extensive (read: 2 years) training in cheerleading in high school, I can kick and balance and control my bod. So, yeah. I stopped dissecting myself in the mirror and started punching right at my own reflection and exhaling a little "Oosh! Oosh!" with each jab and cross, just like Russian Tony did. It felt great.

Then came the best part. The GLOVES. While I was utterly gnarled out at the sweaty, grainy insides of the gloves, Tony insisted, "Yes, theeeze gloves are sweaty, but they are a DIFFERENT kind of sweaty! Eeet's a GOOD sweaty!" So I sucked it up and clenched a loose fist inside the glove. First, we had to pair up and one person punched/kicked, and the other blocked. It was not ideal, as my partner (NOT Sanna) was def not as coordinated as me and kept getting too close to me. Space, woman! Don't make me TKO you! (I don't know what TKO means, btw.) But OMG, you guys. The punching bags! Punching a giant bag with giant, padded gloves on is positively empowering. I felt stronger than ever. Plus, Tony kept saying "Excellent!" to me, so I'm pretty sure he's going to recruit me for a women's boxing team. Coooool!

So we punched bags and kicked bags and I wiped my sweaty brow with the back of my gloves. I felt like a pro. Tony strolled around, fixing our techniques, and then declared "Eet's too quiet in here! Let's leesten to some music!" And cranked up something pounding and loud. "Eef you don't like techno, get out now! Hahahahahahaha!" Did I mention I love Tony? 'Cause I do. My hips, shoulders, calves, and big toes were aching. An hour after we started, we were already finishing up. I was beat, but I was so into it that I wanted to keep punching and kicking and checking out my "mean face" in the mirror. Tony ran through some totally awesome things we'd learn "in the next couple classes". Little things like, oh, ROUNDHOUSE KICKS and some move that allegedly could break someone's back. Yes, yes, yes! When is the next class!?

Luckily, Sanna and I have agreed to go every week for the next ten weeks (NOTE: Sanna is NOT as beat as I am. She is in markedly better shape than me). By the end I will probably be the best boxer ever. That is, if my legs ever stop shaking and my hips ever stop aching. I have sore muscles that I didn't even know I had, and they are clearly muscles I haven't worked in, oh, the past decade. But I'm hungry for more already. I don't know if it's the aggression I worked out, or the bod I worked out, but whatever it is, I feel good.

Badder Business Bureau

What is this world coming to? Seriously. I came home tonight, and one of my roommates was visibly upset. Turns out, Bally's Fitness Center is the Second Scammiest Company in the World. (I reserve that coveted top spot for one insurance company that shall remain nameless. Nope, screw it...World's Scammiest Company is Federated Insurance. Coming in a very close third behind Bally's is Comcast, for reasons I've explained before.)

But Bally's, man. They are horrible. DO NOT EVER SIGN UP for a membership there. Basically, my roommie signed up for a membership, asked if she could cancel at any time, and the dude said "Yup!" So, she signed a piece of paper and started using their crappy equipment. A few months later, she realized that Bally's is the worst gym ever. Cut to: tonight. She was looking at how to cancel her membership, and discovered the jackwad who assured her they weren't Soviet Russia had lied. She was locked in to her membership for THREE YEARS. Needless to say, she was upset.

I leapt into action, cyber-sleuthing my way through hundreds of links to people who have had the exact same life-ruining experience. Then I got Prinna to help. Within seconds, Prinna had found out who to contact, what to do, and why they make life so incredibly hard for people who pull back the curtain and discover that Bally's is just a bad, bad company.

What has happened to these companies? They SUCK. They screw with regular people all the time. They're all like "Yay! We're the best! Come work for/play with/hire us! We are awesommmme!" And then all of a sudden, something goes wrong, and they're like "FACE! PWNED YOU! You idiot! You TOOOOOTALLY trusted us and we GOT you with the fine print! Suckahhhh!" Wouldn't it just make more sense to, I don't know, not be a gnarly business?

I get so annoyed when things like this happen. I do. The average person is stressed out right now. Recession, unemployment, tech-overload, bills, trying to stay away from anything promoted by Kim Kardashian. Seriously. We don't have the capacity to also research every company ever to make sure they aren't, in reality, the worst company ever. I don't want to have to google "Target" just to make sure that by parking in their parking lot I'm not also agreeing to let them hire my car out for taxi services.

It's just so SAD and soulless. I know I'm ranting, but I don't care today. I'm annoyed that companies can abuse and harass the very people who keep them in business. It's childish. It's mean. It's, well, it would seem to me to be just Bad Business. Wouldn't it be more cost-effective to, oh I don't know, FIX a problem instead of running around covering your tracks? I didn't go to some fancy Business classes, but I DO know this: When I wear my hair in a ponytail all day and have a huge crease in it when I take it down, yes I COULD spend hours to try and straighten it and creatively braid it to hide the crease before heading out to play Bingo. But no: I wet it down in the sink wash it and get rid of the problem. Is that so hard to understand?

On the other hand, here is a quick list of companies who blow me away with their excellent service and help. They don't even have the greatest products all the time either, but I like them because if and when I have a problem, they fix it and help me understand what went wrong. They don't throw a piece of legalese my way and tell me I'm screwed before evil-laughing into the phone. Here are the Good Guys: USBank, Target, AT&T, Trader Joe's, YMCA, Kate Spade, Subaru, IKEA, Zazzle.com, and MAC Cosmetics. I like them. You all should support places like them who are nice and curtious and not evil.

But, my Public Service for the weekend is this: If you can at all help it, do NOT, and I repeat do NOT give your business to Bally's (or Federated or Comcast). They're bad, bad people. See you guys? I'm helping here. I'm providing a service to my faithful readers. And I urge you, if you are dissatisfied with your service or if I can improve your experience in any way, I look forward to speaking with you. I honor your patronage and will do everything in my power to give you the product and service you expect from us here at Pharon Square. (Bally's, are you writing this down?)

Peace out, guys. This weekend, do something nice for someone else. Because hey, SOMEone's gotta do it...

Queen of Clubs

I really think every chick needs a good book club. Or, well, at least SOME sort of club where you all do something for a month and then get together and talk about it. Tonight was the 11 month anniversary of our little club (but who's counting). I only knew a couple of the girls when it started, but now it's like seeing old friends, which is just lovely.

Full disclosure: I didn't think this club would last more than a couple months when my friend Liz started it. It was an awesome concept with awesome girls, but I'm not exactly the girl who typically sticks with "clubs" very long. It's not like I go in with bad intentions of dropping out or flaking out, I just, I dunno, lose interest. Luckily, that is not the case with my Book Club. It's awesome. I hope we continue it forever. Though, based on my history, I have my fears.

Okay, so yes I was in band and soccer and cheerleading when I was young. Those weren't like "clubs" though. Those were competitive and there were prizes and awards. But, okay, I remember being in a New Kids on the Block club when I was young. Claire, our neighbor Johanna and I started the club. We met every day in Johanna's garage and each set up a desk. We each chose our favorite New Kid and we'd tape their trading card to our "desk" and, like, write them letters we never sent. I somehow got stuck with Danny. Ew. But we'd sit and write and talk about our favorite songs. We'd congregate in the driveway and make up dances to Hangin' Tough, and just generally gush over how much we loved them. But, because I got stuck with the sucky New Kid, I bailed on the club after about our 4th meeting.

Then there was a period of time where I was in the Leggings/Jean Shorts club. In middle school, my friends and I would only wear jean shorts over leggings, and side ponytails. That particular club last a couple disgusting weeks. I'm pretty sure I only had one pair of shorts and maybe two pairs of leggings. And with the unreliable laundry schedule at my house, I probably never washed them. I must have quit soon after the chaffing started.

In college, I was in a BIG TIME club. A NATIONAL club, if you will. I was in a sorority for my freshman year. I loved it. I met my best friend Madeline in the House. All the members met for weekly formal dinners, wore matching t-shirts to fundraisers and hay rides, chanted House cheers, hosted parties, and studied together. Well, when we weren't out partying. I especially liked the PROCESS of joining that club. Rushing sororities was incredibly fun for me. You go to all the different sororities in big groups of newbie freshmen, and talk to members of each house about random stuff..you know, like other clubs we were into - if I remember correctly, no one was too impressed with the Jean Short/Legging club. But despite all the perks of being a "sorority girl", I was only in my House for a year. I still get their newsletters and address labels, though, so it's like I still get the perks of club membership, but I don't have to actually do anything.

As of late, of course, I'm in the process of joining a new club. More specifically a GYM. There's a lot riding on this choice. Unlike the NKOTB club, I actually have full control over this choice and the consequences. There's the dirt cheap gym with bad classes, and the pricier gym with awesome classes. I don't know why I'm wiggin' out so much about this choice. It's not like I'll be there for more than a few months anyways...

But I've got a good feeling about Book Club. I think I'm really psyched about any club that enforces a Must Bring Wine policy, to be honest. Man, if only I'd known that back in the days I was in the Mickey Mouse Club.

Workin' on My Fitness

I can’t tell if my muscles are, like, giddy from activity or seizing from shock. Whatever the reason, my muscles are a-quiverin’ like Jell-O. My lovely friend Valerie let me use a guest pass to join her for a Body Pump class at the YMCA. She and I used to go to Body Pump every week together, and it was a grand ol’ time. Body Pump, for those of you who don’t know, is basically weight lifting to club music. It’s all about reps and toning muscle. It’s super fun, and I used to love going. But, after giving up my gym membership when I moved to the ‘burbs a few years ago, our weekly gym dates suffered, then stopped altogether. Sorry, Val! But tonight’s class, despite my shaky muscles and desperate sense of dehydration, was so awesome. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. My body, though, is experiencing a violent reminder.

Here’s what I like about the Y. (I mentioned this back in November, but it's worth repeating.) It’s not uncommon to see people on the treadmills wearing jeans. No running shoes? No problem. Just wear those loafers you wore all day at work. No one cares if you look like crap. I preferred no makeup. No jewelry. People were lucky if I wore clean socks. Okay, so people didn’t make a habit of wiping down machines when they were done, and my friend Amy and I did have to formally submit a complaint about the dangerously bad B.O. this one guy always had, but whatevs. I can handle that, as long as there is an abundance of back issues of The New Yorker and plenty of people who have as little interest in chatting with each other as I do. Those are my people.

Geo (who is a total Gym Rat) asks me why I don’t just join a gym and quit complaining about not having a gym to go to. My response, which may as well be crocheted into a pillow, is always “Because I’m not spending $60 a month on a gym membership, when I could be spending it on groceries, gas, wine, and other staples.” I think I’m the last person on the face of the planet who doesn’t have a gym membership. The only time it’s glaringly obvious, though, is in the winter. Everyone goes to the gym because you can‘t do jack outside. But God, you’d think they were handing out Kate Spade bags filled with crack or something.

I held on to that like a Rebel Status for awhile, you know, refusing to conform. But now my body is just very angry at me for letting all my muscles atrophy for this long. Oddly enough, it doesn’t care that I’m taking a faux stand against the crazy high gym membership rates. For some reason, my muscles LIKE getting a work out. It’s almost like that’s what they’re for. I’m going to have to do something, because I am starting to agree with my body and I’m almost ready to give up my fake rage against the Machine that is Corporate Gyms.

Maybe there’s a way to compromise. Does anyone have a Thigh-Master I could borrow? Or maybe a Shake Weight? Or, hey, what about those giant machines that do 1,000 different exercises that also somehow slide under a bed? I could definitely use one of those. I tried to con my parents into giving me their elliptical machine, but it’s like the knew I wouldn’t use it for anything other than hanging wet clothes. We do have a pull-up bar in our house. The boys went through a phase when they all did P-90X, so they drilled a chin up bar in a door frame. I promised myself that I would use that thing everyday and one day be able to do 20 pull-ups, no problem. That was almost 3 years ago. I can do exactly one half of one pull up as of yet.

I’m definitely one of those suckers who, given the funds, would spend thousands of dollars trying to replicate a gym in the comfort of my own home thinking there‘s no WAY I wouldn‘t work out then. But then I would turn the gym into a wrapping paper room. And then it would become a second shoe closet. Talk about wasting money…stay away from me, Suzanne Somers!

It’s not even that I don’t LIKE working out. I actually do like it. I just also really like doing other things that, most of the time, seem way more appealing than going to the gym. Like napping. Or organizing my t-shirt drawer, or having a vodka tonic while reading blogs. Or, well, just not going to the gym. But I guess I’d like to not feel like I’m full of marshmallows anymore. Well, it seems there is only one choice: join a gym, or get a mallow-ectomy. Ugh. Decisions, decisions...

Dream On

I don’t even want to TALK about Mossgate 2010. No longer do I have the hopes of bumping into Randy Moss at the gas station and striking up a conversation and then being asked to hang out with him at the mall. He’s gone. And much like the first time he left us, it just makes me sick. Stupid coach and his stupid terrible coaching…

But, I digress. Okay, so you know how nothing is more boring than listening to someone recap a dream? Well, last night, I had a crazy dream and I want to tell you about it. In my dream, I ran a marathon. Like, it was a weekend-long type thing. And I didn’t even break a sweat. Right before I finished the race, though, I got bored and went to wait on the corner for a girl (who I don’t even like) to come pick me up and take me swimming. So, when I woke up this morning, I was like "Whew! What a workout!" But I had been doing nothing but laying down. I think I was almost sore.

Has anyone ever done a study of whether or not dreaming about working out has any effect on someone in real life? I mean, sometimes when you dream, you work out problems in your head and you think clearer the next day. So, does working out in your dreams have the same effect? ‘Cause that would really rule. That seems like such a typical "American" thing to ask…"Is there a way to sleep while working out?" Basically, I want to know what I’d need to do to workout without actually DOING anything. Ideas? And don’t suggest yoga. Yoga scares me. I listened to a dude fart allllllll the way through a yoga class, and I just don’t have the kind of stamina to last a whole class without laughing at that.

I used to belong to the YMCA by my old apartment. It was pretty ghetto, and I loved that place. It was stinky, and nobody washed down machines, but it just felt right to me. There were frequently people working out in jeans, and for the most part people just kind of minded their own business. I rarely ever saw the kind of person who "gets ready" to go work out. I hated that more than anything at the gym I belonged to before the Y. It was a snooty, snobby person’s club. I did NOT fit in there. I will never, for the life of me, understand how a woman can work out with her hair down wearing big hoop earrings and expect to get anything accomplished on the treadmill. Or why a ginormous muscle-head would toddle around a weight room flexing and drinking creatine. Don’t these people have jobs? I like to put on sweats and a tank, pop in my headphones, and stare blankly at an issue of People from September 2004 and then get home.

What I really need is to find someone who is less or equally as coordinated as me to take a kickboxing class together. Something about all that punching and kicking just really appeals to me. I have no doubt I could be good at that. Though, I also assume I’d be very good at break dancing, so who knows?

I just know that the winter doldrums are already kicking in, and my whole house is as cold as it is outside. So, I’m going to need to get out of here and get into a place where I can sweat my butt off. The question remains though: Is that place in my bed while I sleep, or in front of a punching bag? Please say bed, please say bed, please say bed….