Friday, January 22, 2010

Lydia's Commitment to Vanity - Week 2

This is an overview of week two of my commitment to vanity. Oh, and better health. And by better health, of course, I mean a smaller ass.

So - week one was all about researching and then attaining Big Girl Hair. Check! The top of my head is now fluffy and stylish. And also stripey. And I have made a remarkable discovery in the process. Hair that is professionally striped, oops - I mean, highlighted, looks better and cleaner and almost cute when it's a little dirty and sticking out of the same navy fleece you always wear to take the kids to school. I expect Kate would argue that this is not the point of big girl hair, but I think it's awesome. [Editor's Note: Sigh. - Kate] Also, as predicted by many, my stripes have gotten less... hyper. They've faded. Or maybe blended? They just look nicer this week. I really need to work on my hair vocabulary.

Another little tidbit I learned is that my hair is 10-20% gray. This is according to the woman who colored it. So, this means two things. First, all those people who were like - "I don't see any gray at all, Lydia, what are you talking about?" are actually big, fat liars. If you told me that and you are reading this, I would check your pants to make sure that sure that they are not currently on fire. Second, I found the fact that 10-20% of my hair was gray to be completely frigging horrifying and it was made worse by the fact she said it like: "You are a large, adult, female, human. With 10-20% gray hair." So objective. So matter of fact. With no feeling whatsoever. I am not Emmylou Harris. Or Anderson Cooper. I am not a damn silver fox, Professional Colorist, and you hurt my feelings. Even if you did tell the truth. [Editor's Note: Lyd, take your large BWT, adult force, female outrage and human response and go utilize her skinny ass as a speed bump...right after she's finished striping your hair. Priorities, people. - Kate]

Moving on. The next step in Lydia's Commitment to Vanity is working out. I am going to work out five days a week. There. I said it. I will walk outside with iPod (that is not a mistake - iPod is his name and we have a relationship) whenever the weather allows. Failing that, I will utilize the amazing Wii Fit Plus that the Cap'n got me for my birthday. I love that damn thing. I don't know about your Wii Fit, but mine is not fueled by technology. Mine works by MAGIC. If you had showed me that thing when I was twelve, I would have screamed and flailed around and run away (because you were probably a Terminator or a witch or something).

When I started with this magical machine, I was so in awe of it that I didn't really notice that it had bad manners. First of all, it gives me crap if I take a day (or five) off. And it asks me rude questions like "Do you trip when you walk?".  And the worst is when I step on it so it can calibrate magically align, it makes a noise like this: "uuuugghh". A noise like the overwhelming weight and mass of my body has just forced all the air from its lungs. The lungs it does not have. Unless they are magic lungs but I don't think it even needs magic lungs so really, it's just being rude and a dick for no reason. Like a Frenchman. Maybe they meant to call it "Oui"?

Then it weighs me and gives me a totally offensive and clearly inaccurate BMI. Then it selects for me a series of balance tests. These tests get easier the more you do them but I swear my Wii likes to give me new ones every time in order to mess with me and give me bad grades. I hate getting bad grades. The balance tests were obviously designed for Olympic gymnasts or professional circus performers or something. Of course, Hawk hopped on there and rocked them all out with no problem at all and he couldn't even read the instructions because he is FOUR. But they make no sense to me and I am bad at them. I fully expect tomorrow's new balance test to be a "Wii Fit Field Sobriety Test" and I will have to walk a straight line with a virtual police officer tsk-tsk-ing at me. That I will in variably fail, stone sober at 9:30 in the morning.

Lastly, it takes all the data it has collected (weight, BMI, balance test results) and gives me my Wii Fit age. I am barely 37. According to this machine, for the past two weeks I have been in my mid-fifties. WTF?! But guess what? Today, I took the stupid body test and got my new Wii Fit Age and it was 31. Thirty one, y'all. Can I get a WOOT?! As a good friend pointed out, 31 is the opposite of 13 - which is my Wii Fit Maturity Age. So I'm pretty happy.

I had to take some time off some time off from getting fit, though. I had good reasons. My sister Lucy was visiting for a while. That's always fun but involved. My lovely six year old has begun adopting a persona she imagines is teen-ish. It mostly consists of saying "boo-ya" at inexplicable and inappropriate times, excessive eye rolling, and having, as my Grandmom would say, a "fresh mouth". Hawk has decided that a good way to be sad about Lucy leaving is to pretend he's a baby and do things like bite people and poop in the tub. So, I'm having a great week.
And it gets better. Because the baby has been sick. She is both puny and pitiful and hasn't slept more than 60 consecutive minutes in five days. As you can imagine, I am about to lose my ever loving MIND. So I have spent the better part of the last week in a waking, walking stupor. Working out has not been on the top of my list. I am so drunk with exhaustion that I don't think I'm safe to operate a motor vehicle. I am slurring my words and get distracted by shiny things and loud noises. I am so tired at night, I don't even want to drink wine. Need sleep. Sleep good. Wakey bad.

[Editor's Note: Lydia texted me the other morning. To my home phone. Which, as one may imagine, doesn't really know how to text. So I answer the phone call to hear RobotWoman say something that went like, "can. you. up. date fb been up. w. mini. mini. me since three i. have. no funny. left. *click* press one to hear this message again." I was like, Bring. It. On! Play it again baby, this is the funniest f***ing thing I've heard all day. Lydia, you haven't lost your funny. Now I just laugh at you instead of with's all good.]

In terms of my commitment to vanity, there is one good part of the baby's cold/ear infection/diarrhea/teething episode. All night long, while I am not sleeping, I am doing Gulag Baby Yoga. That has to count for something, right? The kid is in pain and needs snuggling but she's heavy (24 pounds). She insists that I hold her semi-upright, head on my left shoulder, body crooked in my bent left arm, right arm patting her tummy or stroking her head, while rocking with my right foot in the world's most uncomfortable chair. And I need to hold that position for, oh, say 7 hours. Or she will cry and sob her head off and wake up the whole house. That's why it's called Gulag Baby Yoga - I am being forced against my will, by a totalitarian regime (the baby), to contort my body into bizarre postures and then hold them until I am about to scream in pain. That it takes place in my living room and not Siberia, is a small matter.

So bad news: the baby is currently doing to me (stress positions, sleep deprivation, noise trauma) things that our government is *legally unable* to do to Al Quaeda during interrogation. I fully expect to get water-boarded if the antibiotics don't start working soon. But the good news? Lost 6 pounds. Boo-ya.

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