Still A Few Things to Bowl You Over This Sunday

Is everyone pumped for Super Bowl Sunday?

All right, I’m sure there may be a lack of enthusiasm for this year’s match up since our local boys, the New England Patriots, will not be gracing the field. My husband was extremely disappointed two Sundays ago when the Patriots were eliminated. I know just how much he was looking forward to another New England Super Bowl victory, and so on his behalf, I was disappointed as well.

But I have to admit; a small little part of me was also relieved.

Everyone knows I’m not a huge football fan, but I was excited last year when the Patriot’s made the playoffs and advanced to the Super Bowl. I was thrilled for my husband, knowing just how happy he was to have his favorite team playing. And I had some crazy idea that the ideal mix of his favorite team, the right snacks and a boatload of entertaining commercials would make the event a fun, family activity.

I was wrong.  The evening wasn’t fun; it was agonizing. My husband barely glanced at the snacks I had carefully chosen, saying he was too nervous to eat. Instead of lounging on the couch, he perched his body, rigid with tension, on a hard chair and hardly moved throughout the entire game. The commercials did nothing to distract him from his agony, and the half-time show was nothing more than a nuisance. My younger son and I retreated to another room, while my older son loyally stayed by his father’s side, though he cares even less for football than I do. As my younger son and I watched a different program upstairs, we could hear every groan and expletive rising up through the floor as the Patriot’s chances slipped away. Both my husband and my older son went to bed that night in a foul mood.

So can you blame me for being relieved that there will be no repeat of this incident this year?     

Although he has no great love for either the Ravens or the 49ers, my husband will probably still tune in to the Super Bowl this year.  And though I don’t know a flag from a fumble (still!) I’ll probably watch with him.  Because there are plenty of good reasons to watch the Super Bowl that have absolutely nothing to do with football.  And they are, in order of importance:

Snacks:  What other time of year can you eat nachos, ribs, buffalo wings, mozzarella sticks and potato skins without feeling guilty?  The Super Bowl is a free pass to load up on any and all foods that wouldn’t dare darken your doorstep the rest of the year.  Is it fried?  Bring it on!  Is it covered in melted cheese and fake bacon bits?  Pass it here!  Is it dipped in milk chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt and almond brickle?  Yes, please!

Commercials:  With CBS charging up to $4 million for 30 seconds of airtime, you better believe that the heavy hitters (Coke, Budweiser, Doritos, etc.) will pull out all the stops in between game coverage.  I’m no Carnac the Magnificent, but I predict that this year’s spots will include a creepy talking baby, a hot, scantily clad woman eating some type of food in a vaguely suggestive manner and a group of guys doing something clever/stupid/funny while drinking beer.  Oh, and Clydesdales.  Personally, I’d pay $4 million just to see Flo from Progressive Insurance battle Allstate’s Mayhem to the death.  The Geico Gecko could referee.

Halftime Show: What will this year bring?  An aging rock star, trying to revive his or her career?  A wardrobe malfunction?   A group that relies heavily on auto tune and can’t sing live to save their lives?  No, it’s Beyoncé, fresh from her much-discussed, lip-synced appearance at the Inauguration.  If she didn’t sing live for the most powerful man in the world it’s a safe bet she won’t sing live for millions of football fans.  CBS could save millions of dollars on plane fare and limos and cheese platters by just projecting a pre-recorded hologram instead.  Then Beyoncé can stay home with her baby, Blue Ivy or Purple Clematis or whatever she’s called.

The Puppy Bowl: When the game action starts to lose its luster, switch over to Animal Planet to watch a team of adorable puppies frolic up and down their own small football field.  The kitty halftime show isn’t bad either; at least their caterwauling is live.

But the best thing about this year’s Super Bowl? Giselle Bundchen and the other Patriot wives can’t subject fans to any post-game whining on Twitter, Facebook or anywhere else.  Silence truly is golden, isn’t it?

Now pass the snacks.

Scripture Can Be Hard To Remember in Spin Class

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January is a time when many decide to recommit to healthy eating and increased exercise, driven often by New Year’s resolutions. Grocery flyers feature sales on frozen diet dinners while department stores slash prices on athletic wear and exercise equipment.  Going to the gym on any given day in January, you’ll find a lack of parking spaces outside and a shortage of treadmills and Stair Masters on the inside.

Like many, I too try to make more of an effort in the cold winter months to get to the gym. In warmer weather, I prefer walking or biking outside in the fresh air. But when there’s snow and bitingly cold wind, I’m left with the option of working out indoors or not at all. So off to the gym I go.

In a spin class the other day, I found myself at odds with another participant over the temperature in the room. People seem to fall into two workout categories: those who like their area chilly and those who don’t. I prefer the former. She prefers the latter.

“Just take off a layer and you’ll be fine,” she dismissed my complaint. 

A gentleman nearby offered this sage advice. “One could say that if you’re chilly you could just add a layer.” I was glad to have another chill-seeker on my side.

“I do have several layers on already,” she pointed out.

“Well, that’s because you don’t have any insulation.” I replied. This was my joking attempt at a compliment on her lack of body fat, but apparently she didn’t take it as such because what came out of her mouth next was this:

“Come here every day and maybe you will too!”  Oh snap! I was so completely taken aback by her stinging remark I had no handy comeback. 

I spent the rest of the class fuming over the remark. I pondered revenge fantasies, like eating a bean burrito and situating myself on the bike directly in front of hers.  Part of what bothered me the most was the truth of her statement. Yes, if I did go to the gym every day, and took multiple classes back to back for hours at a time I might have less “insulation”. But it was the implied judgment that came with the remark that bothered me more.

She knows nothing of my life.  She has no idea about family, work and other commitments that prevent me from spending several hours in the gym every day. I could have a medical condition that prohibits extensive exercise. She is nowhere near my age, and may not know (yet) about how joints and cartilage fail and metabolisms slow.  Perhaps I was being sensitive, but her remark seemed to assume that I could go to the gym every day, but choose not to.

The whole experience reminded me of the lesson I taught the week before to my K-2 Sunday school class, focusing on the scripture in which Jesus warns others not to judge, lest you be judged yourself. Though I meant the “lack of insulation” remark as a compliment, after consideration I realized she might have taken it as an insult, and felt compelled to sling one in return. If it’s wrong to judge me for the lack of time I spend at the gym, its also wrong for me to judge why she spends so much time there. She could be training for a race. She may simply love exercise and its results. Some people enjoy the natural high the endorphins provide.  Others get satisfaction from exercise that they can’t find in other areas of their lives.  Who knows?  But this I do know.  It’s not for me to judge.

Though I was initially insulted and angered by the exchange between us, I’m now thankful that her remark reinforced the lesson I had taught just the week before: Do not judge, lest you be judged yourself. I can’t prevent others from judging my life, but I can make more of an effort not to judge theirs.

And if I fail?  Well, there’s always the bean burrito to fall back on.

'The Sweet Science' proves a middle-aged glove affair

Boxing day is celebrated on December 26^th in Britain, Canada, Hong Kong, Australia and New Zealand. Traditionally, this post-Christmas holiday is when tradesmen and servants receive Christmas gifts from their employers.  To put it in perspective for those of you equally obsessed with “Downton Abbey”, it’s the day when Lord and Lady Grantham bestow their trinkets upon Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson and the rest of their impressively large staff.

My version of Boxing Day is quite different.  It is celebrated every Tuesday at 8:30 a.m.  There are no presents, and the only wrapping I do involves wrapping strips of cloth around my wrists before sliding them into a pair of gloves. Instead of dispensing gifts, I’m dispensing jabs and uppercuts. 

How did an overweight, middle-aged, out of shape housewife find herself in a boxing gym once a week?  I lay the blame completely at the feet of my friend, Julianne.  Everyone has friend like Julianne.  She’s the one that strongly suggests you do something you would never think to try in a million years.  Julianne prodded me into applying for my columnist job, dogged me every step of a 10k she made me run and said, “You have to try this boxing class, it’s so much FUN!”

The thing about friends like this is that no matter how much you might curse them for pushing you out of your comfort zone, you always end up being grateful to them for introducing you to something new.  And thus the same came to pass with boxing.

If you blink you might miss the sign for Undisputed Sports Training.  The studio lies hidden in a nondescript office park just a mile from my home in Hanover. “B” Street? Who even knew there was a “B” street in Hanover?  Walking up the stairs, the first thing that caught my eye was the railing made from hockey stick handles.  It turns out that the owner and trainer, Stephen Murphy, is a both a boxer and a hockey player. 

The studio itself is decorated in early no-nonsense.  You won’t find juice bars or disco balls or flat screen televisions there. The plywood walls sport a few boxing posters and several full-length mirrors.  There’s an assortment of heavy punching bags, a double ended bag, and a couple of speed bags hanging from the ceiling, and an actual boxing ring.  This isn’t where people go to sip smoothies and gossip while getting a light workout.  It’s a place where you go to sweat.

And sweat I do as my friends and I warm up with several minutes of jumping rope.  I start off at a brisk pace, the rope making rapid swish-swish-swish sounds as I spring off the pads of my feet.  About 30 seconds into this, my pace slows down to a two-footed jump-pause, jump-pause, jump-pause.  About 10 seconds after that I’m barely able to keep up the fairly lame single footed swish-step-step which 5 year olds do when they’re learning to jump. I begin the warm up like Rocky Balboa, but end looking more like Little Lulu.

When I think “boxing trainer”, I picture a grizzled, tiny old man with a cigar permanently wedged in the corner of his mouth, barking orders.  Our trainer, Stephen Murphy Jr., is just the opposite.  A twenty-something, former Golden Gloves finalist, Stephen, dressed in sweats and a knit cap, quietly puts us through our paces, working us through drills on the heavy bag, the speed bag and the double-ended bag.  The latter is a punching bag centered on a floor-to-ceiling stretchy cord, designed to help with hand-eye coordination, of which I have none.  As I try to land more than a few jabs in a row, I feel like I’m sparring with the world’s largest cat toy.

We do shadow boxing for warm-ups and cool-downs and although I typically try to avoid my reflection in the mirror, I force myself to watch my form to see if I can make improvements. I think I look like Rocky Balboa when I’m shadow boxing.  What I actually see in the mirror looks more like those novelty punching nun puppets you find at Newbury Comics.

Throughout the hour we do squats, lunges, push-ups and sit-ups in addition to hundreds of jabs, hooks and uppercut punches.  If you have any pent-up aggression, the heavy bag is the place to release it.  How lovely to be able to punch something repeatedly and not have to worry about being punched back (or arrested).  My girlfriends and I do manage to sneak in some gossip, but Stephen just rolls his eyes and encourages us to do another set of punches.

By the end of the hour, my friends and I are tired and sweaty, our arms wobbling like wet noodles. I know my arms will ache for a day or so, but it’s that good kind of ache, where I know I’ve really worked my muscles.  But it’s more than just a physical workout: all those jabs and punches release the tension I’ve stored throughout the week.  It’s definitely a workout for the body and the soul.

So that’s the story of how overweight, middle-aged, out of shape housewife discovered the joys of boxing. Maybe you’d like to check it out too.  Come on over to Undisputed Sports Training and perhaps you’ll see me there.  I’m the one who punches just like Rocky Balboa.

In my mind.

Bypassing the Milky Way can lead to a few Snickers

Who loves a big glass of milk?  Who thinks that the perfect compliment to a giant slice of chocolate cake or a plate of cookies is a tall, icy cold glass of milk?  Who wakes up in the middle of the night and heats themselves a cozy, comforting mug of warm milk to sail them back to dreamland?  Who can’t imagine the idea of a life without milk?

Not me, that’s who.

By that you may surmise that I don’t care much for milk.  That’s not to say that I can’t have milk, I mean I’m not allergic to it or anything.  It doesn’t react badly to my digestive system. I know some people who can’t drink milk because it makes them sick to their stomach.  In my case, the very thought of drinking milk makes me queasy.

I drank milk as a child, but during my teen years I switched from white milk to chocolate milk, and then at some point I stopped drinking milk altogether.  I just lost my taste for it.  The longer I went without drinking a glass of milk, the more I became repulsed by the idea of drinking milk.

My children just can’t wrap their heads around this feeling.  They’re both hardcore milk drinkers; up until lately, we were going through a gallon of milk every other day.  They must get it from my husband, who drank enough milk as a teen to justify owning his own cow. Okay, full disclosure; he grew up on a farm, but still…

“Why don’t you like milk, Mom?” my children ask. “Why don’t you like Brussels sprouts?” I reply. “Because Brussels sprouts are disgusting!” they counter. “And that’s how I feel about milk.” This usually ends the discussion. (By the way, I happen to love Brussels sprouts).

Maybe the issue is that I’m sending them mixed messages.  I have no problem consuming items that are made from milk.  God knows I’ve hoovered enough cheese and yogurt and butter and ice cream to sink a ship.  It doesn’t help that my children resume their interrogation whenever they see me drinking something made with milk.

“I thought you didn’t like milk.”  “This is a milkshake.”  “How is that different than milk?”  “It’s frozen.”  “Would you drink chocolate milk?” “No.”  “But you drink hot chocolate.” “That’s different.” “Why?” “Because it’s hot.”

I wouldn’t think of eating a bowl of cereal without pouring milk into it first.  This is the opposite of my sister, who eats only dry cereal with a glass of milk on the side, but that’s a column for another day.  I think I can handle milk in my cereal because only small amounts of liquid are being consumed in conjunction with the solid   However you will never see me slurping up any remaining milk from the bowl once the cereal is gone.  It either goes down the drain, or I’ll add a little more cereal into the bowl to absorb whatever milk is left.

If I’m going to come completely clean, I have to admit that I don’t even like having milk come in contact with my skin.  If I’m pouring milk for one of my children and a little sloshes out of the bottle onto my hands, I have to wash them right away.  And those “Got Milk?” ads kind of gross me out, the ones where people are standing and smiling at you with a gigantic milk mustache, as if they don’t even feel that slimy stretch of milk on their upper lip.  Just thinking about it makes me shudder.  But that’s normal, right?  Ok, so I gagged when I accidentally took a sip of my son’s milk from a covered cup that I thought contained water and replayed the horrific feeling in my mind for the rest of the day.  That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me, does it?  Could it be I’m just a tad…milk phobic?

The Milk campaign’s tag line is “Milk: It Does a Body Good”.  While that may be true, it’s clear that milk sure isn’t doing my mind any favors.  And then there’s the old saying that goes “One man’s food is another man’s poison.” 

In my case, perhaps it should be, “One woman’s milk is another woman’s Brussels sprouts.”

Like Two Snowflakes, Now Two Sons Are Exactly Alike

I’m constantly reminded, yet continuously amazed, by the differences between my two children.  It’s amazing how both come from the same list of genetic ingredients; yet the recipe varied just enough in each child to produce very different personalities, aptitudes, attitudes and physical features.

Nowhere is this more evident than when they venture out into winter weather. 

As I type this, I am sitting inside the warm, cozy confines of my in-law’s house in Central New York.  This is the area where snow begins falling in October and rarely stops before April, and even sometimes May.  Although my children were disappointed by a green Christmas at my parent’s house in New Jersey, a mere 240 miles and 24 hours later they were treated to an impressive storm which dumped more than a foot of snow on my in-law’s farm.

Both children were salivating to get outside and try out the new snowball maker they received for Christmas.  This is a device that looks like a small suitcase and makes eight snowballs at a time, purchased for the bargain price of $1.99 at the Christmas Tree Shop.  My older son quickly dressed in his snow garb and hightailed it out into the snowy, Central New York tundra. 

My younger son, however, requires a great deal of assistance when suiting up for the great outdoors.  Granted, we probably don’t have the best selection of winter gear to protect them from the cold and snow.  We haven’t introduced them to the wonderful, expensive sport of skiing yet.  To compensate, my younger son wore pajama bottoms underneath his jeans underneath his snow pants.  He put on three pairs of cotton sports socks, however they were ankle socks, the only types he packed.  After layering on three shirts, a hoodie and his winter coat and boots, he pulled on his gloves, hat and face mask and ventured out into the cold.

Unfortunately, not only was he somewhat underdressed for knee deep snow, but he gave his older brother a healthy head start in building a snowball arsenal.  I stood by the front picture window, watching my young son trudge through the snow, following in the same footsteps as his older brother.  As he rounded the enormous pine tree, suddenly a flurry of snowballs came flying out from between the branches.  Quickly, he tried to open his snowball maker, but after several failed attempts with his heavily gloved hands, he angrily threw it into a snowdrift, wailing in frustration.  Snowballs continued to sail out from between the branches, peppering his body until he lost his balance and fell backwards into the deep snow.

30 seconds later, he appeared at the garage door in tears.  I shook the snow out of his gloves, brushed off his boots and sent him back out into the cold.  After all, I wasn’t about to spend a half hour of zipping, tying and tucking only to have him come back in after five minutes.  On top of that, I’d been reading Jon Krakauer’s book, “Into Thin Air”, about the 1996 disaster that left eleven climbers dead on Mt. Everest.  As a result, I had no sympathy for someone with a little snow in his sleeves.

He spent another half hour or so out in the snow, making snow angels before he appeared inside and announced that he was “done”.  Meanwhile, my older son, who had already been outside for more than an hour, was showing no signs of coming in from the cold.  This is a child who almost never ventures outside during any other time of year, opting instead to lie on the couch surfing Cracked.com on the iPad or killing aliens on the Xbox.  As his younger brother sipped hot cocoa and warmed his toes by the heater, my older son helped his grandfather shovel out his truck that had become stuck in the snow, and then began building a snow fort dubbed “McHenry 2”.   At some point I’ll have to lure him into the house with the promise of hot chocolate.  

It’s kind of a mystery how two children from the same parents can have such opposite feelings about snowy weather.  What possible explanation could there be?  I’ll have to ask my husband in between when he comes in from shoveling and goes back out to try out his new snowshoes.  Until then, I’ll just sit here in this toasty, warm house, typing my column.