3.01 miles 35:58 11:57 pace 5:10pm 80 degrees
No, I didn't tank a test. In fact I passed a bunch of them. I went to my doctor and she ran a slew of labwork, trying to figure out the source of this fatigue and my leg cramps. No answers. I consider that a good thing. I'm going to continue to eat a balanced diet, rest when tired, and surround myself with positive people.
"D" is for Dance!
I decided to run with music this evening. Instead of shuffling through my library, I'm working through them in alphabetical order. (Unmedicated Obsessive Compulsive Disorder can be FUN, boys and girls!) I'm up to the D's. There are a lot of songs that have "dance" in the title and that means my run soundtrack was extra-kicky and happy.
I danced in the street and in the dark with David Bowie and Lady Gaga and I felt like a Dancing Queen with ABBA.
Then Prince came on with Darling Nikki, and well...you know.
That's a whole different kind of dancing.
I love me some old-school Prince.
M
©Michelle Scofield, October 8, 2013 All Rights Reserved
Showing posts with label dancing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dancing. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
A Provision for Dancing
I'm getting older and I consider that a very good thing. It beats the alternative.
My body (and mind) have reminded me of my age this week. The Big Race recovery hasn't been as difficult as I expected. It's been almost exactly as I expected. Sore muscles at the start were of epic proportions and they've faded into memory only. The only physical reminders I have are at my right heel (will that ever go away?) and my left second toe. It's still tender. I've been reading up on Morton's Toe. To call myself a genetic freakshow is a bit dramatic and won't bring me any sympathy. It does bring me the knowledge that my toe will get better and maybe I can prevent this pain from happening in the future.
It also makes me feel good to know that the Statue of Liberty and I have something in common - other than a pensive countenance which might be mistaken as guarding rather than welcoming. When I was spending hours online last week I found pics of her feet poking out from under her robes. Who knew?
So, my mind. Last night I went country western dancing with a friend. Let me take that back. I put on boots and jeans. She drove us to a honky tonk. We paid cover to listen to a surprisingly good band. (I say this because surprisingly, my ears didn't bleed.) She danced. I drank two bottles of Michelob Ultra beer and watched the dancing. Prior to going, I'd told her I wouldn't be dancing. I know how to two-step and polka. I can waltz. I don't love it and I didn't feel like it. I was happy to sit along the rail and watch. The crowd was all ages, twenties through sixties and up. Some were outstanding dancers. Some fair. It was fun.
During band breaks the DJ played the kind of music I usually dance to. When I'm on a cruise ship or when I'm out with friends and I've had two vodka martinis. I continued to watch. Honestly, I was happy to have "my foot hurts" as an excuse not to dance.
I also realized I'm invoking an age provision in my head. I'm going to call it the "Grandmother Clause".
If at a certain point in your life you are tempted to exhibit behavior that you are certain would mortify any grandchildren you have or could potentially have due to your chronologic age, don't.
I think it's pretty simple, just based on that one simple word: mortify.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to stop dancing. Just don't be surprised if THIS Brick House never once takes the Jersey Turnpike on the dance floor.
(p.s. I think my Dad would agree with the above. Here's to a fantastic Grandfather who knew how to keep it classy. Missing him as much today as I did three years ago. Broken hearts can mend. Thanks for the love.)
©Michelle Scofield, January 26, 2013 All Rights Reserved
My body (and mind) have reminded me of my age this week. The Big Race recovery hasn't been as difficult as I expected. It's been almost exactly as I expected. Sore muscles at the start were of epic proportions and they've faded into memory only. The only physical reminders I have are at my right heel (will that ever go away?) and my left second toe. It's still tender. I've been reading up on Morton's Toe. To call myself a genetic freakshow is a bit dramatic and won't bring me any sympathy. It does bring me the knowledge that my toe will get better and maybe I can prevent this pain from happening in the future.
It also makes me feel good to know that the Statue of Liberty and I have something in common - other than a pensive countenance which might be mistaken as guarding rather than welcoming. When I was spending hours online last week I found pics of her feet poking out from under her robes. Who knew?
So, my mind. Last night I went country western dancing with a friend. Let me take that back. I put on boots and jeans. She drove us to a honky tonk. We paid cover to listen to a surprisingly good band. (I say this because surprisingly, my ears didn't bleed.) She danced. I drank two bottles of Michelob Ultra beer and watched the dancing. Prior to going, I'd told her I wouldn't be dancing. I know how to two-step and polka. I can waltz. I don't love it and I didn't feel like it. I was happy to sit along the rail and watch. The crowd was all ages, twenties through sixties and up. Some were outstanding dancers. Some fair. It was fun.
During band breaks the DJ played the kind of music I usually dance to. When I'm on a cruise ship or when I'm out with friends and I've had two vodka martinis. I continued to watch. Honestly, I was happy to have "my foot hurts" as an excuse not to dance.
I also realized I'm invoking an age provision in my head. I'm going to call it the "Grandmother Clause".
If at a certain point in your life you are tempted to exhibit behavior that you are certain would mortify any grandchildren you have or could potentially have due to your chronologic age, don't.
I think it's pretty simple, just based on that one simple word: mortify.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to stop dancing. Just don't be surprised if THIS Brick House never once takes the Jersey Turnpike on the dance floor.
(p.s. I think my Dad would agree with the above. Here's to a fantastic Grandfather who knew how to keep it classy. Missing him as much today as I did three years ago. Broken hearts can mend. Thanks for the love.)
©Michelle Scofield, January 26, 2013 All Rights Reserved
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Spice of Life
Hal Higdon's Novice 1 Marathon Training Schedule: Week 6, Day 7
Days to Chevron Houston Marathon: 83
Planned activity: Cross Train
Hatha Yoga Class
Variety.
Anyone who knows me (really knows me) knows that I get bored easily. I change jobs, I move. I paint a room. I move my furniture. I always have 4 books going at the same time - reading and sometimes writing.
This running thing is messing with my head. I'm trying to switch up my routes. I'm listening to podcasts because music seems to disappear into the background of my brain and my thoughts take over. Music doesn't keep me busy enough to fight boredom on a long run. Listening to the conversation - the back and forth - of a radio program works better.
I'm trying to fit yoga into my fitness routine because it helps me turn off and tune out. I was a little surprised to see a couple of young girls in today's class. I mean really young girls (somewhere between 9 and 11 years old?). It was cool. They took the class seriously, did their own thing, and hopefully they're not going to be nearly as uptight as some adults (ME!) when they grow up. It's great to see kids involved in healthy pursuits so early.
A girlfriend and I went to an art event last night. We put on cocktail dresses, high heels, and sparkly jewelry and drove into Houston. It was a nice event but within an hour we knew we were all dressed up and wanted to have a little more, um, fun.
We retrieved my car from the valet and made our way to a place with expensive drinks and live music. We didn't make it home until early this morning. Once we started dancing, we didn't sit much. The place is known for an overabundance of older men who love to dance. And dance we did. We twisted and we cha cha'd. It was an evening full of east coast swing and rumba and laughs...so many laughs.
We paid for our own drinks, all of them. Our drinks numbered a whopping 1 each. At one point she looked at her watch and said, "Wow! It's almost 1am!" It was time for us to go home.
I think I'll spend a quiet day at home the rest of this Sunday. I've had a pretty full weekend. Unless I get bored. Then all bets are off.
©Michelle Scofield, October 21, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Days to Chevron Houston Marathon: 83
Planned activity: Cross Train
Hatha Yoga Class
Variety.
Anyone who knows me (really knows me) knows that I get bored easily. I change jobs, I move. I paint a room. I move my furniture. I always have 4 books going at the same time - reading and sometimes writing.
This running thing is messing with my head. I'm trying to switch up my routes. I'm listening to podcasts because music seems to disappear into the background of my brain and my thoughts take over. Music doesn't keep me busy enough to fight boredom on a long run. Listening to the conversation - the back and forth - of a radio program works better.
I'm trying to fit yoga into my fitness routine because it helps me turn off and tune out. I was a little surprised to see a couple of young girls in today's class. I mean really young girls (somewhere between 9 and 11 years old?). It was cool. They took the class seriously, did their own thing, and hopefully they're not going to be nearly as uptight as some adults (ME!) when they grow up. It's great to see kids involved in healthy pursuits so early.
A girlfriend and I went to an art event last night. We put on cocktail dresses, high heels, and sparkly jewelry and drove into Houston. It was a nice event but within an hour we knew we were all dressed up and wanted to have a little more, um, fun.
We retrieved my car from the valet and made our way to a place with expensive drinks and live music. We didn't make it home until early this morning. Once we started dancing, we didn't sit much. The place is known for an overabundance of older men who love to dance. And dance we did. We twisted and we cha cha'd. It was an evening full of east coast swing and rumba and laughs...so many laughs.
We paid for our own drinks, all of them. Our drinks numbered a whopping 1 each. At one point she looked at her watch and said, "Wow! It's almost 1am!" It was time for us to go home.
I think I'll spend a quiet day at home the rest of this Sunday. I've had a pretty full weekend. Unless I get bored. Then all bets are off.
©Michelle Scofield, October 21, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Saturday, September 1, 2012
I Come From Another Place
Dancing last night with J. We used to go about once a month or so but things happen and it's been a long time. Broken feet happen. Babies happen. Bad bands happen. We got out of the groove. Don't get me wrong. J and I never lose our grooves. We're just too damned groovy to lose our groove.
Our old routine went like this: We'd order dinner (lots of chips and salsa) and talk about our families and our jobs. We'd catch up on news about the old gang. We'd share a pitcher of margaritas or have a couple of martinis each. We'd commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. Then we'd move on to the dancing venue.
Our new routine goes like this. We go to dinner and talk about our families and our jobs. We catch up on any news about the old gang - there's not much anymore. We might have coffee. We rarely have alcohol at dinner. We commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. If we're both feeling good and we can find anywhere to dance, we move on to that place. If not, we call it a night and go our separate ways. Last night, we felt great and we had a plan.
The lights were low, the wood paneling was dark, and the band was playing when we entered the room. The music ran all the way through rock and blues to salsa and hiphop. Several couples were already on the dance floor and we found a table not too far away. It didn't take long before the first drive by occurred. A man circled our table and didn't stop. We were being checked out. I asked J if she'd seen him. She hadn't. She never does. It's something I like about her. She's there for the music. I've seen her dance alone many more times than with a partner.
We were served way-too-expensive cocktails and soon were dancing with numerous and varied partners. I feel lucky that I was asked to dance by a man who happened to be quite good at East Coast Swing and I'm not sure if he had as much fun if I did, but I had a blast. It's rare to find anyone who knows how to dance that style these days, let alone is a strong but not painful lead. During a mamba, I feared one older gentleman was having some sort of cardiac event, as evidenced by his profuse perspiration and the way he was mopping his brow with cocktail napkins. I asked him if he wanted to sit down but he insisted on dancing on. We danced on.
You'd think all this would be entertainment enough. But wait. There's more. Another girlfriend arrived. I hadn't seen her in months. Now picture this. Three women. One tall drop-dead gorgeous African-American, one Midwestern brunette, and one tall West-coast looking blonde. 3 women out on the town, dancing with any man who asks, buying their own drinks. What happens during the band breaks? Just this.
A man walks over, sits down at our table and says, "So what's the story here?" He went on to tell two of us that he thought we were quite stunning but "not your blonde friend" - gesturing at her with a shoulder shrug. He turned his body away from her, oh-so-slightly excluding her from his conversation. He actually insulted her, not once, but twice right in front of us. I think he saw her talking to someone and immediately decided she was interested in that person so he didn't have a shot with her. I'm not sure, but his approach was, um, interesting. He went on to tell us that the "guys at the bar" had been talking about us and there was money riding on him coming over and finding out our story...where were we from, how did we know each other, etc. He said he might not be very elegant in his questioning because he "came from another place". Ah! That's it. He asked where I came from. I told him, I also came from another place. Kansas in Truthistan.
Now, know this. The entire time I was talking to him, I was smiling. I was charming. I was Charm School charming. I let him tell us his story about the bar bet and then I leaned forward and told him it wasn't very nice, what he said - twice - to my friend. I continued to smile while I said it. He kept smiling and he shook my hand. He stood and he left.
Best part of the evening. As soon as he left, another man slid right into his seat. My girlfriends and I just cracked up. Poor guy. What was this? Was someone giving out numbers for that booth position?
I don't want anyone to get the idea that we're three women who go out on a mission to mess with men. We don't. It's quite the opposite. We all had a great time and I think the people we danced with did, too. We aren't out to hook up. We aren't out to take advantage. We're just out being humans, enjoying the music. Mr. Swing Dancer was kind enough to tell me of some places I didn't know about where I might run into some other dance-lovers my age. I'll check them out. In the meantime, I'll keep planning dinners with my girlfriends and remembering where I come from. Truthistan, the land of smiling honesty.
©Michelle Scofield, September 1, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Our old routine went like this: We'd order dinner (lots of chips and salsa) and talk about our families and our jobs. We'd catch up on news about the old gang. We'd share a pitcher of margaritas or have a couple of martinis each. We'd commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. Then we'd move on to the dancing venue.
Our new routine goes like this. We go to dinner and talk about our families and our jobs. We catch up on any news about the old gang - there's not much anymore. We might have coffee. We rarely have alcohol at dinner. We commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. If we're both feeling good and we can find anywhere to dance, we move on to that place. If not, we call it a night and go our separate ways. Last night, we felt great and we had a plan.
The lights were low, the wood paneling was dark, and the band was playing when we entered the room. The music ran all the way through rock and blues to salsa and hiphop. Several couples were already on the dance floor and we found a table not too far away. It didn't take long before the first drive by occurred. A man circled our table and didn't stop. We were being checked out. I asked J if she'd seen him. She hadn't. She never does. It's something I like about her. She's there for the music. I've seen her dance alone many more times than with a partner.
We were served way-too-expensive cocktails and soon were dancing with numerous and varied partners. I feel lucky that I was asked to dance by a man who happened to be quite good at East Coast Swing and I'm not sure if he had as much fun if I did, but I had a blast. It's rare to find anyone who knows how to dance that style these days, let alone is a strong but not painful lead. During a mamba, I feared one older gentleman was having some sort of cardiac event, as evidenced by his profuse perspiration and the way he was mopping his brow with cocktail napkins. I asked him if he wanted to sit down but he insisted on dancing on. We danced on.
You'd think all this would be entertainment enough. But wait. There's more. Another girlfriend arrived. I hadn't seen her in months. Now picture this. Three women. One tall drop-dead gorgeous African-American, one Midwestern brunette, and one tall West-coast looking blonde. 3 women out on the town, dancing with any man who asks, buying their own drinks. What happens during the band breaks? Just this.
A man walks over, sits down at our table and says, "So what's the story here?" He went on to tell two of us that he thought we were quite stunning but "not your blonde friend" - gesturing at her with a shoulder shrug. He turned his body away from her, oh-so-slightly excluding her from his conversation. He actually insulted her, not once, but twice right in front of us. I think he saw her talking to someone and immediately decided she was interested in that person so he didn't have a shot with her. I'm not sure, but his approach was, um, interesting. He went on to tell us that the "guys at the bar" had been talking about us and there was money riding on him coming over and finding out our story...where were we from, how did we know each other, etc. He said he might not be very elegant in his questioning because he "came from another place". Ah! That's it. He asked where I came from. I told him, I also came from another place. Kansas in Truthistan.
Now, know this. The entire time I was talking to him, I was smiling. I was charming. I was Charm School charming. I let him tell us his story about the bar bet and then I leaned forward and told him it wasn't very nice, what he said - twice - to my friend. I continued to smile while I said it. He kept smiling and he shook my hand. He stood and he left.
Best part of the evening. As soon as he left, another man slid right into his seat. My girlfriends and I just cracked up. Poor guy. What was this? Was someone giving out numbers for that booth position?
I don't want anyone to get the idea that we're three women who go out on a mission to mess with men. We don't. It's quite the opposite. We all had a great time and I think the people we danced with did, too. We aren't out to hook up. We aren't out to take advantage. We're just out being humans, enjoying the music. Mr. Swing Dancer was kind enough to tell me of some places I didn't know about where I might run into some other dance-lovers my age. I'll check them out. In the meantime, I'll keep planning dinners with my girlfriends and remembering where I come from. Truthistan, the land of smiling honesty.
©Michelle Scofield, September 1, 2012 All Rights Reserved
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