Fortnight on the Internets somehow scrounged up enough rubles to fly me uber-economy to Sochi to cover the Olympics!!!
(THIS IS ALL NOT REAL.)
Be sure to follow all my inevitable kooky and zany mishaps via twitter -- @jenisue
Or just follow the hashtag #fauxchi!
(Please note: I am faux-liveblogging. Nothing to get twisted, because this is not real. Like when friends thought I was actually attempting to get impregnated by all of Mumford & their Sons when I was faux-liveblogging Coachella, because our offspring would have British. Fun idea, never really happened. Please Mom, don't panic. I didn't actually leave the country without telling you.)
#FAUXCHI!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
I'm Challenged
I've been challenged by Gold's Gym (Note: Gold himself did not personally invite me) to undergo a TOTALLLLL BOOOODYYYYYY TRAAAAANSFOOOOORMAAAAATTTTIIIOOOONNN.
12 weeks
36 boot camp training sessions
(aiming for) 24 loads of laundry
And at least 4-6 people who will incur the wrath of my hangry outbursts
I am DOING THIS. I mean, look. Look at Steve:
I can only hope to look half as good as Steve, and Steve's beard.
So far, I've executed a 10-step plan.
Step 2: Take the before/after ransom picture
During a trip to Target last weekend (that resulted in a ratio of 5:1 things I didn't need, to things I originally planned to get when organizing the Target trip) I purchased a Fitbit Flex.
This was not my first Zumba. But this IS the first time writing about Zumba. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Zumba is the Latin music dance class popular with housewives, mothers, and other very, very white people. Below is an example of a Zumba class. For your reference, I was Randy.
I entered the dance studio and took an unassuming position in the back left, right behind the person in front of me. This way I could avoid all self-eye contact and glimpses of my body somehow resisting any attempts to stay on the beat. Here's the rub -- I can dance. In my mind. But not physically. Physically, my body makes no sense whilst moving to music.
We started with a "warm-up" which I initially thought was high-impact cardio. Moving into the next song, the instructor shouted "I HOPE EVERYONE REMEMBERED TO DO THEIR HOMEWORK!" Homework? What homework? This was my first class. I didn't even get a syllabus! WHAT WAS THE REQUIRED READING?! I suddenly felt like John Cusack:
It seemed like every single person had memorized all the choreography to every single song. I just remembered the instructor's words at the beginning of class "Even if you don't get it, I want you to keep moving." OK, keep moving. KEEP MOVING. This included a hell of a lot of toe tapping, pointing, clapping, and random hip shaking in an attempt to blend in with the Salsa-ly aggressive mid-level bureaucrats LETTIN' LOOSE!
I think the most frightening part of the entire experience was when the instructor would introduce a new move such as the "Step, step, step, STOP." I step, step, step, stopped only to find myself FACING THE SIDE MIRROR, WHERE I WAS NOW IN THE NEW POSITION OF FRONT OF THE CLASS. All I could see in the mirror, other than my frightened face, was the entire class looking at my ass for guidance and instruction. Unfortunately all they got was a few half-assed (literally) thrusts and a pleading face that read "ONE, TWO, PLEASE MAKE THIS STOP SOMETIME SOON, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT."
Once the class was righted back around, the instructor reminded us that "Everyone has their own Zumba! So as long as you're workin' it, you're doing it right!" OK! This was good news! I was workin' it! Maybe part time. Freelance. Trial period. Internship.
So everyone has their own Zumba. HEAR THAT? DID YOU HEAR THAT? EVERYONE HAS HIS OR HER OWN ZUMBA SO LAY OFF ME WITH THOSE JUDGMENT EYES, FRONT ROW CAMEL TOE.
After an hour of slight dehydration and Latino tinnitus, I walked away knowing my hips don't lie. And the truth they are telling me is that I am incredibly mediocre at shakin' dat ass.
IIf I win, I'll have money! $6,500 to be exact*. (*IF I win the NATIONAL competition.) I tend to be somewhat secretly competitive. I guess it's not so secret since I'm broadcasting this to my readers, so yes, I'm competitive. ALL THE GLORY, ALL THE MONEY, MINE. MIIIIIINE!!!!
12 weeks
36 boot camp training sessions
(aiming for) 24 loads of laundry
And at least 4-6 people who will incur the wrath of my hangry outbursts
I am DOING THIS. I mean, look. Look at Steve:
 |
So far, I've executed a 10-step plan.
Step 1: Sign up.
Step 2: Take the before/after ransom picture
Oh, you thought I was going to post that picture? BAHAHAHAHHAHA...HAHAHA...hahahahh...hahaha...haha whewww haha, no.
I call it the ransom picture because the Fitness Director positioned me next to that day's paper tacked to the wall as proof of life(CHANGING RESULTS!!!!!!!!!). I was told to dress in a sportsbra (personal/physical preference is 2) and shorts. I chose the most unflattering short shorts and my best mug shot face to really achieve the look of "Infinite sadness at not being in peak phsyical condition."
The Fitness Director conducted the photo shoot in his office, and I appreciated the privacy. I appreciated it until I looked to the side and saw that his window facing one of the main weight lifting areas -- which was "covered" by a desk calendar, was larger than said desk calendar. I found myself making direct, intense eye contact with a guy in a cut-off frat tshirt most likely listening to Fall Out Boy. Or the podcast of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!" I don't know his life! Except for the parts I do know because they are so blatantly obvious.
Also noteworthy -- the Fitness Director took these photos on his phone. So that'll be a fun NSA data-mine found object. If the NSA manages to connect the photos with this blog, please note that I am not actually being held against my own will at the Gold's Gym on 19th & L.
The Fitness Director conducted the photo shoot in his office, and I appreciated the privacy. I appreciated it until I looked to the side and saw that his window facing one of the main weight lifting areas -- which was "covered" by a desk calendar, was larger than said desk calendar. I found myself making direct, intense eye contact with a guy in a cut-off frat tshirt most likely listening to Fall Out Boy. Or the podcast of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!" I don't know his life! Except for the parts I do know because they are so blatantly obvious.
Also noteworthy -- the Fitness Director took these photos on his phone. So that'll be a fun NSA data-mine found object. If the NSA manages to connect the photos with this blog, please note that I am not actually being held against my own will at the Gold's Gym on 19th & L.
Step 3: Buy a Pedometer (This step not required, and I'm not sure it's entirely recommended)
During a trip to Target last weekend (that resulted in a ratio of 5:1 things I didn't need, to things I originally planned to get when organizing the Target trip) I purchased a Fitbit Flex.
This lil guy tracks number of steps, calories burned, active minutes, and quality of sleep. THIS IS THE FUTURE.
I set my goal to number of steps (10,000xday) and check it roughly... every 30 seconds to see my progress. The display shows a dot for every 2,000 steps taken. I've found myself marching in place to get to the next dot. I now have a compulsion to win at a game I've created where I am the only participant, and I win a 10 second vibration indicating I've hit my goal. AND PRIDE. SO MUCH PRIDE.
Step 4: Take a Zumba class
This was not my first Zumba. But this IS the first time writing about Zumba. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Zumba is the Latin music dance class popular with housewives, mothers, and other very, very white people. Below is an example of a Zumba class. For your reference, I was Randy.
We started with a "warm-up" which I initially thought was high-impact cardio. Moving into the next song, the instructor shouted "I HOPE EVERYONE REMEMBERED TO DO THEIR HOMEWORK!" Homework? What homework? This was my first class. I didn't even get a syllabus! WHAT WAS THE REQUIRED READING?! I suddenly felt like John Cusack:
It seemed like every single person had memorized all the choreography to every single song. I just remembered the instructor's words at the beginning of class "Even if you don't get it, I want you to keep moving." OK, keep moving. KEEP MOVING. This included a hell of a lot of toe tapping, pointing, clapping, and random hip shaking in an attempt to blend in with the Salsa-ly aggressive mid-level bureaucrats LETTIN' LOOSE!
I think the most frightening part of the entire experience was when the instructor would introduce a new move such as the "Step, step, step, STOP." I step, step, step, stopped only to find myself FACING THE SIDE MIRROR, WHERE I WAS NOW IN THE NEW POSITION OF FRONT OF THE CLASS. All I could see in the mirror, other than my frightened face, was the entire class looking at my ass for guidance and instruction. Unfortunately all they got was a few half-assed (literally) thrusts and a pleading face that read "ONE, TWO, PLEASE MAKE THIS STOP SOMETIME SOON, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT."
Once the class was righted back around, the instructor reminded us that "Everyone has their own Zumba! So as long as you're workin' it, you're doing it right!" OK! This was good news! I was workin' it! Maybe part time. Freelance. Trial period. Internship.
So everyone has their own Zumba. HEAR THAT? DID YOU HEAR THAT? EVERYONE HAS HIS OR HER OWN ZUMBA SO LAY OFF ME WITH THOSE JUDGMENT EYES, FRONT ROW CAMEL TOE.
After an hour of slight dehydration and Latino tinnitus, I walked away knowing my hips don't lie. And the truth they are telling me is that I am incredibly mediocre at shakin' dat ass.
Step 5: Buy weightlifting gloves from Marshalls.
I'm an aspiring hand model. I'll most likely aspire for the rest of my life, but you never know when a scout will pick you up at the nail salon, Mahjong tourney, crotchet club, etc. That's why I can't run the risk of calluses.
So this happened, and here they are:
And yes, they pretty much look equally, or more ridiculous than they do here, in real life.
I'm an aspiring hand model. I'll most likely aspire for the rest of my life, but you never know when a scout will pick you up at the nail salon, Mahjong tourney, crotchet club, etc. That's why I can't run the risk of calluses.
So this happened, and here they are:
And yes, they pretty much look equally, or more ridiculous than they do here, in real life.
Step 6: Buy new running shoes you've yet to use.
These shoes HAVE been in motion. From the box to my bedroom floor.
These shoes HAVE been in motion. From the box to my bedroom floor.
SIKE! They've been on my feet:
(I took them off shortly after this photo was taken.)
Step 7: Start realizing that you have no money.
Shit. I have no money.
Shit. I have no money.
Step 8: Want to win.
IIf I win, I'll have money! $6,500 to be exact*. (*IF I win the NATIONAL competition.) I tend to be somewhat secretly competitive. I guess it's not so secret since I'm broadcasting this to my readers, so yes, I'm competitive. ALL THE GLORY, ALL THE MONEY, MINE. MIIIIIINE!!!!
Step 9: Realize that if you do win, that "Before" picture will be in every Gold's Gym location. Every. Location.
Step 10: Shoot for 2nd Place.
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