Everything I Tell you is Hearsay

Go To The Gym this one was pretty easy. it got a little harder once i arrived. the PRL has some* experience in the fitness area and has been putting me through my paces. i tried to replicate the workout we did last week; probably with only limited success…

push-ups with weights: grab some barbells, place them on the floor and then hold them under either hand as you do a pushup. then lift the weights back toward the chest alternating sides. these are hard. i hafta do the pushup part on my knees like a girl.

chest press: typical barbell seated lift. used 20’s which was better than i could manage last week.

lat pull: the hardest part here was keeping the ball under my behind, i swear.

modified pull ups: feet on balance ball horizontal pull ups with a cross bar. did 30 of those. word.

leg press: last week i was pressing 170 at one point. not this week. 130 about killed me. butt still hurts.

i also tried to swim but forgot my goggles. ah well.

Sewing Project

gift season is upon us. i’m making presents this time. needed yards and thread and notions. now to find a machine…

Crying

yeah. still working on that one.

* and by “some” i mean a real lot.

i went into the studio today and recorded this song. i don’t think it’s my best work. i had a bit of a sore throat and a scatterbrain. my playing, which isn’t my strong point anyway, was a little less accurate than average, and my singing, which is usually my saving grace, wasn’t.

which is too bad because i think the song itself IS some of my best work, and getting to the studio is tough. hopefully next time i’ll feel a bit better about the outcome.

How You Don’t

(if you click on the song title, it should play for you)

didnt turn out like i planned.

first i kinda randomly…

hacked all my hair off

went to seattle

saw an amazing sunset

went to ikea

experienced intense coveting of this bed

then got smacked with the sick stick, like hard.

i only drink tea in times of desperation

i couldnt face the idea of an evening spent at the ER, so i’ll be going in the morning. but, generally, boo. episodes of gossip girl and chicken soup delivery nothwithstanding…

even though i never had one myself. turns out, a large portion of the state was on fire…

Re: OR-WIF-Tumblebug Complex

---

518 acres, 10% contained.

Tanker 00 committed out of Missoula @ 1345 today to this fire.

A Type 2 Incident Management Teanm will take over today. Expanded road and area closures were put into effect yesterday for a large area around the biggest fires in the complex. Complete information about the road closures and area closure can be obtained by calling the Middle Fork Ranger Station at 541-782-2283

so. i decided, sort of on a whim, that i was going to get the fuck out of town this last weekend. in service of this, i borrowed a car, loaded all the usual crap into it, and headed for Crater Lake. this wasn’t in itself a bad plan. the weather was beautiful and i like driving, so i decided to make the most of my trip and see what i could manage to enjoy along the way.

i bought this book some years ago called “Hiking the Hot Springs of the Pacific Northwest” and have proceeded to never actually use the thing. this trip seemed like a good time to remedy that. i looked at the book, my trusty Benchmark atlas and decided on the Wall Creek Warm Springs.

about 50 miles east of Eugene stands the quaint and charming townlet of Oakridge. the drive through the Willamette National Forest was just beautiful. winding, and lake strewn, the route was still fully green, but the hints of yellow and orange in the trees are beginning to show themselves

i have a strange obsession with taking pictures of signage

i would say this was one of the more enjoyable scenic drives i have ever been on. it wasnt dramatic, or breathtaking, but it was lovely and serene. lots of trees. i liked it.

the guidebook was pretty specific and gave excellent directions to the spring itself. i was vaguely worried that on a lovely friday evening such as the one i arrived upon, there might be stiff competition for the soak. turns out; not another soul there.

me and my feet go the best places together

it was labeled as a “warm spring” and this was a pretty accurate protrayal. it was better than tepid, but only just. on the plus side it did not stink of sulfur or tarnish my silver. i sat in the soak and read George Carlin. good times.

by now i was pretty hungry so i decided to roll myself back into town and see what was on for eats. this hamlet seemed to have a few likely options; the local brewpub or the slightly ramshackle divey place. it came down to whether i wanted sesame seeds and thousand island on my burger or pepper jack and a cibatta. on this occasion, froof prevailed.

this was the most delicious cider i have ever consumed

dinner was tasty, though as usual, there was too much of it. i was feeling kinda aimless at this point, since i had orginally toyed with the idea of going to Ashland to see a show but it had now become too late in the evening to reasonably expect to arrive before curtain. with no other concrete plans i just got back in the car and started making my way eastish.

i had been hearing for some time about the fire; on the radio they were keeping pretty close track of it. and i could sense it in that suddenly my inhaler seemed like my new best friend. but it wasnt until i started heading east from Oakridge that i really started to see any evidence of it for myself.

o'er the misty mountains...

i started to notice a distinct haze in the air and could smell the smoke as well. it was not an unpleasant aroma; it was the smell of camping. i had long since abandoned any hope of my own campfire; smokey the bear was practically foaming at the mouth and all the signs were red with their EXTREME FIRE DANGER placards up. so at least i got to enjoy the ambiance anyway, right?

my reasoning hereafter was, “what the hell is the point of getting a campsite if i cant have a fire anyway?” as such, i folded down the seats in the ‘Ru unfolded my futon and “camped” at a rest stop somewhere along hwy 97. yes, i know, devestatingly romantic.

i woke up at a not-ungodly-early hour the next day and scooted the rest of the way over to Crater Lake National Park (North Entrance)

see? like i said? with the signs?

to my surpise and pleasure i had managed to show up on some kind of magical “taxpayer headpat freebee” day so i didn’t have to cough up $15 to get into the park. neat! the kindly ranger in her silly hat handed me a little map-y doo-hickey and i was on my way.

smooooooke on the waaaah-ter

it was especially hazy this morning, and she warned me that visibility wasn’t going to be fantastic with all the smoke. i determined pretty quickly that i wasnt going to be content looking at the lake from the rim and needed to get down to the shore. i didnt want to go on the boat ride (who the hell decided to call it “Wizard Island”? was this national park founded by Renn Faire dorks or what?) but i wanted to put my feet in the water at the very least. i’d brought my suit thinking i might take a dip but my handy dandy map-y doo hickey alerted me to the fact that the lake stays a constant 38° and i did not bring my hypothermia hat, so i decided to pass on that idea.

there’s only one place on the whole lake that you are allowed to be on the shore. Cleetwood Cove involves a fairly steep trail; it’s a little over a mile, but has a considerable elevation change of 700 feet. this is the only way to reach the water’s edge and what is, to my mind anyway, all-too-generously called a “boat dock.”  i think i’d have been more inclined to say “canoe hitch” but i digress…

no, i do not feel the least bit silly or self-conscious dashing in front of my camera for this"candid" photo!

once i made it down to the shore i was gratified to see the water was every bit as unbelievably blue as anyone had ever suggested it was. but apart from admiring said blueness, there wasn’t much else to do.

yes, this water is sufficiently blue for me. i think i'm done here...

i did, i will admit sit down and get my hands wet. i didnt want to take off my shoes though because every surface was covered in soft grey ash, and i didnt want getting wet to turn me into a crusty ashey mess. i am a wuss. i did also pull out my tarot cards and find that i am isolating myself too much. sheesh, you take ONE little trip all by yourself and all the sudden, you’re anti-social. sometimes the universe is a NAG!

i then proceeded to charge back up the trail as fast as i was able. the placard at the top said it typically took people 40 minutes to make the return trip. i timed myself at 25. take THAT National Park Service!!

on such a smokey day, there were only very few other people around. i think i might have encountered a grand total of 2 dozen folks my entire time in the park, and i am including the somewhat surprsingly surly staff at the park’s Mazama Village Store where i was condescendingly informed that since it is federal land I WOULD HAVE TO PUMP MY OWN DAMNED GAS. that was an adventure all by itself…

after that excitement, and the scolding from the universe, i felt like my time alone on the road was over. so i scooted myself back to town. next time i run away from home, i’ll take a buddy.

i come from a family of inveterate drug doers.

seriously. my mother and i are not currently speaking because she hotboxed my kid.

i am the only person in my immediate family who does not have a substance abuse problem. except that i kinda do… in the form of taco bell. and wendy’s. and burger king. and jack in the box. oh, mother-of-god jack in the box.

i am a fast food addict.

left to my worst, i will have it 7-10 times a week. i dont like to eat in company, and so the drive thru has a particular appeal. no one sees me feed myself in this fashion. and there is ranch, and taco sauce, and mustard. it usually gets down the front of me…

but i am trying to reform.

not least becuase it is so very bad for me. i am getting old now and this behavior reminds me of that forcefully. no more can i glibly consume a mexican pizza (no tomatoes, no ground beef) without consequence. neither can i down bacon cheddar potato wedges without ill effect. no, i must now be made to pay for these pleasures, and i am simply not strong enough to withstand the punishment.

so i have sworn off fast food. it’s really for the best.

and yet, i yearn. in much the way any junkie might. i think about what good times i am missing, alone in my car, post-drive thru. the pleasure of that jr bacon cheeseburger hitting my gullet. the flush when the chalupa hits home. (nevermind the flush that happens later when the chalupa really hits home)

today, it was tacos. i really wanted them. really. they are deep fried and awful, yet utterly irresistable. Jack, how i curse your round head, pointy hat, amusing commercials, and vilely delicious culinary marvels. plus also an oreo cookie shake.

i have constrained myself thus; i must sit down in any restaurant at which i want to dine. and since the concept of eating at tacobelljackintheboxwendysburgerville is totally odious, i have not yet succumbed. and i laugh just as heartily as the next at the absurdity of this stricture, but it is apparently necessary.

and so, on day 18, i longed for tacos.

have i mentioned, i also like to shop? more on that later…

By Victor Hugo

I read this book primarily because someone claimed it was their favorite and I was kinda skeptical. it seemed an unlikely choice. but, committed to trying to get to the “classics” I read it. this review is written with the assumption that the reader has also read the book. i do not usually do so, but in this case it was a bit of a book report so i was commenting more on the underlying themes than on exposition. if this is confusing or unpleasant, you have my apologies.

It was difficult, I will admit, for me to at first discern how this book could be anybody’s favorite. Well written enough, and interesting in that it provided a vivid picture of Paris at a particular time in history, it lacked a sense of dynamism I would expect from something that had commanded the imagination in such a way as to be termed a favorite.

The book begins with Hugo’s witty and amusing tour of Paris. A love of new places would be helpful in enjoying this meandering, as would a particular, if not pronounced, fondness for architecture as an intellectual discipline. Hugo’s thorough coverage of the topic could certainly have fed somewhat to enjoyment of the novel.

His irreverence for the church offered a similarly feasible, but incomplete suggestion as to the book’s appeal. Well written and by all accounts informed, Hugo does much to ridicule the church in subtle but pointed ways. His contempt for those who would blindly submit to authority is apparent. His disdain for the absurdity of the hierarchy of the church itself likewise.

And. It’s funny. So, there’s that.

It wasn’t til I had made it further along into the book that a clearer and more convincing sense of how anyone could find it so compelling began to emerge. This is not simply a walking tour of Paris with a bit of socio-religious commentary thrown in for good measure. Indeed it is an examination of much deeper and more profound themes; how righteousness can all too easily foster hypocrisy, the lack of justice in the social structures of church and monarchy, how zealotry leads to obsession, obsession to madness. Hugo touches on the absurd nature of love; how it is born, how it endures, despite all reason, evidence, and opposition. He lingers long on the role of fate, or at least, on the inevitability of suffering. Even in Sanctuary, there is no real relief…

I began to wonder at one point, that the book was called the Hunchback at all, so little does Quasimodo appear in its pages. We are told about his deformity, meant to loathe him for all his strangeness, and then he goes largely unmentioned for a goodly portion of the tale. At most he is the dogsbody of Claude Frollo; an object of pity and fear. Though it is through his actions that Esmeralda is initially “saved” from the gallows, it seems his role is mainly to provide a warped and distorted mirror to Esmeralda herself. His own love for her is as misguided and shallow as her love for Phoebus. In both cases it is based on one incident of kindness proffered by a person of great beauty thence followed by nothing but cruelty, disregard, and contempt.

Quasimodo brings Esmeralda to his eyrie because it is sanctuary. She can escape her fate at the end of a hangman’s noose, if she consents to stay put within the walls of Notre Dame. A prison perhaps, but one filled with light rather than darkness, with a loving if grotesque companion, and with the freedom to gaze upon Phoebus should that suit her fancy. It is no wonder the escape is qualified in this way, for it is always the perception of the subject which decides if sanctuary is indeed refuge or cage. The cost of escape is not overlooked, then.

And who decides the cost of refuge here is of course La Esmeralda. Esmeralda presents herself as a compelling character from the first. She is proud despite her low social station, she is self-assured though she is in possession of no wealth or the protection of family, she is content with her gifts as a dancer and the companionship of her little goat. She is searching for her lost mother, but is confident in her ability to find her. She is capricious, but good natured. She takes pity on the philosopher who is cast at her feet, but in no way entertains his advances. It is not until she is abducted and threatened by Cluade Frollo’s designs that we begin to see a side of her nature that is more complex. Though it is perhaps understandable she be grateful to her rescuer, the handsome and valiant soldier who frees her from Quasimodo’s clutches, her immediate and irrevocable attachment to Phoebus is all out of reckoning with the scope of his actions. She is still capable of asserting herself to come extent, as she displays remarkable compassion for Quasimodo in the pillory even after he has seized and terrorized her. However, as soon as she comes into contact again with the much lauded Phoebus, she is instantly reduced to a creature who seems to have no will of her own but to love her Pheobus. Even as he is attempting to seduce and defile her, when she becomes sensible to this as his aim, her regard for him never wavers: indeed, she reviles herself;

“Oh, take me. Take all! Do what you will with me, I am thine. What matters to me the amulet, what matters to me my mother. Tis thou who art my mother since I love thee! […] My soul, my life, my body, my person, all is one thing-which is thine my captain. Well, no! We will not marry since that displeases thee; and then what am I? A miserable girl of the gutters, whilst thou, my Phoebus, art a gentlemen. A fine thing, truly! A dancer wed an officer! I was mad. No Phoebus, no. I will be thy mistress, thy amusement, thy pleasure, when thou wilt; a girl who shall belong to thee. I was only made for that, soiled, despised, dishonored, but what matters it beloved? I shall be the proudest and most joyous of women. […] Meanwhile, take me! Here, Phoebus, all this belongs to thee, only love me! We gypsies only need air and love.”

(this was exceedingly difficult to read. For it is, in the main, precisely how I feel.)

Hugo causes this creature, once proud and glorious, to submit entirely to her love, yet even in her moment of supplication, she remains undespoiled. For just as she has consented to be taken, Pheobus is struck by the hand of the envious priest. She thus engenders that which is most desirable in love; utter purity willing to debase itself completely.

Her great beauty, her will and fire, are all now subjugate to this love. She cares for none of it and nothing in the wake of losing the object of her love. She longs not for light, nor life, nor respite from her suffering as long as she believes Phoebus to be dead. When the priest comes to her with the offer to relieve her pain and abjection if only she will consent to his will, she refuses, preferring the darkness and misery to any other pursuit.

And so we turn to the priest. He offers such a fascinating mix of traits. He is wise but capable of great folly, he is a man supplicant to the church, but defiant in his workings within it. He subjects himself to no authority other than his own intellect and reason, but who abandons both in the wake of a dark obsession. He arouses sympathy with his humane treatment of Quasimodo, his misguided but affectionate care of his younger brother. His actions on their behalf allow him to think quite well of himself, and his self-righteousness is profound. He sees his devotion to the church and to these two unfortunates as a chief example of his worth, and he ceases to examine himself much further in the wake of this self-assurance. Most fascinating is his complete inability to detach himself from the notion that he must utterly and completely possess the object of his desire or destroy it completely. I was stunned, time and again, at the total selfishness of his “love” for Esmeralda. Both she and the hunchback have some sense that if at least their love is alive and happy, that they themselves can be at peace knowing that to be the case. Claude Frollo has no such capacity. He is utterly consumed by his need to dominate and keep her captive only to him. He views even the kindness of Quasimodo as a threat to his ownership of this girl and repeatedly seeks her ruin in the face of her refusal to submit to him. Even after he believes she is dead more or less at his hand and regrets the actions he undertook to see it done, he immediately puts her back in harms way when he realizes she is alive and continues to resist him.

It seems Hugo has but two conflicting, though equally tragic, views of love; that it is either totally self-serving, dominating, and obsessive or that it is utterly self-abasing, unwarranted, and obsessive. So, at least he’s consistent on that last point…

This story unwinds itself in typical tragic fashion. A series of misunderstandings and quirks of fate leave the gypsy (which of course she really isnt) back in the clutches of the hangman. She discovers the woman who has most reviled her is in fact her own lost and lamented mother, and the mother who has sought her so long, has the joy of finding her only to lose her again immediately. At least the old woman dies herself before she is forced to watch her daughter perish.

Quasimodo’s attempts to save Esmeralda are of course to no avail. He finally sees the treachery of Claude Frollo and rises from his reconciled subservience to dispense justice for Esmeralda. A blow he would never strike on his own behalf is easily dealt when Quasimodo sees the effects of the priest’s treachery. Ah, the power of love. Ultimately, the hunchback contents himself with stealing Esmeralda’s corpse and being united with her for eternity, since no other earthly love awaits him.

And that of course, is ultimately, what this novel is about; it is a meditation on love and all its follies. Why we love as we do, how such love can be our undoing, and the way that the world has of being utterly indifferent to our suffering in its service.

recommended

i barely recognize myself lately; but i think it’s mostly a good thing.

i have always been somewhat glib about my strange relationship with food. i have characterized is at combative in the past, and it really seemed apt at the time. it still occasionally does, but lately i’ve been trying harder to make peace.

previously shudder inducing; now considered edible!

a few weeks ago i was sitting at the bar in a local eatery looking at the menu and contemplating my options. typically, in almost every dish there was at least one ingredient i did not wish to enter my mouth. this is because i have a fairly long list of food items i do not much care for. and one of them is tomatoes. which, it turns out, lots of other people actually like. while i am not certain i will ever understand this fact from anything more than an intellectual standpoint, i do recognize that since so many people like them a) they may, in fact have some redeeming qualities (even though i have yet to discover them) and b) they are present in lots and lots of things i want to eat.

i have handled this in the past by ordering in a vaguely “When Harry Met Sally” sort of way:

“i’d like the bacon mushroom bbq swiss burger with no tomato or mushrooms. and could i get cheddar instead of swiss? and mustard for my fries rather than ketchup?”

and yes, i DO like the taste of spit, thanks very much.

recently however, i’ve decided to revise my attitude toward food. i do not want to see it as my enemy. i do not want to see a meal as a gauntlet of nasty unwanted items to be plucked out and disposed of.

so.

i have started eating stuff anyway. things i would normally have NEVER eaten. tomatoes only being the most prominent item on the list, there are many more indeed:

• avocados: slimy yet flavored as i would expect earwax to taste
• cilantro: mmmm soapy!
• beets: why yes, i do love “vegetables” that look like dayglo innards
• garbanzo beans: in hummus, they are yummus. otherwise gro-ess
• mushrooms: fungus. nasty. only meant for recreational consumption. not budging on this one.

so now, my new approach is to simply order whatever i am getting with the ingredient list in tact. then, i put it in my mouth. if i do not immediately throw up or die, i chew and swallow. turns out, this is not nearly as hard as i expected it to be. i havent died once so far!

this also extends to other sorts of food related hang ups. for example, i have long had the tendency to not eat leftovers. i cant explain why this is exactly, but i just find the concept of reheating food rather odious. an exboyfriend of mine used to INSIST i take home doggy bags from restaurants (i have a small appetite and can almost never finish a portion the size a typical restaurant delivers) so as not to make the chef/waitstaff/maitre de/parking attendant feel bad about themselves in case they saw my leavings as a condemnation of their fare. he would insist upon this knowing FULL WELL that i was going to throw the food away as soon as i got home, or after letting it take up space in my fridge for a few days more. because i simply could not bring myself to eat something a second time around.

and yet, tonight, i made myself a meal that was comprised ENTIRELY of food items from last week. and it was tasty. and i did not throw up or die. this, is progress.

the funny thing is, that for the first time in my life there is no one pressuring me to make these changes. it has been a sore point in almost every relationship i have ever been in, my pickyness. and now, when everyone who matters seems to be pretty okay with my weird relationship with food, i look at the people i most admire, and they are not the least bit picky about their food. they eat with relish and enjoy what is set before them. it is more that i wish to follow their example than that i am being prodded to grow up and stop being such a brat about what i eat.

thinking about this made me contemplate more fully the role of acceptance in relationships. i like to think of myself as a pretty forgiving person. i judge people certainly, i see faults, but i in no way expect or desire them to change. i feel like i should be able to take people as they come, appreciate who and how they are, and love them nevertheless.

and yet, it is a truly rare thing to have. i know i am not always perfect at this, but i think i am pretty damn good about it overall. and, not to be unduly immodest, but i consider myself to be better at it than a lot of the people in my life who have loved me. much of the love i have received in the past was expressly conditional; dependent upon my willingness to change, fix, and improve myself.

but somehow, at this stage, i can say that i have love in my life that is profoundly unconditional. that is based on that kind of comprehensive acceptance. it is not that anyone is fooled about me; it is not that they fail to see my frailties and shortcomings, but rather that they are seen, and accepted, and loved in their own right as a part of the whole of myself.

and this, beautifully, is what helps me feel free to change in the ways that i like. to become more who i am, and who i want to be.

when i was about 12 years old, i went to live with my dad. it was a fairly typical thing for an adolescent girl to do; tension with mother had reached a breaking point, the hateful stepfather, extra hateful. i’d had enough of the tyrrany and was looking forward to some freedom and peace.

it turns out, i was looking in the wrong place, but that is not the point in this particular narrative. what is the point, is that when i arrived on my father’s doorstep, i owned exactly one pair of shoes. they had serious holes in them. i would stand out in the rain and my feet would get wet. i was accustomed to this, but not inured. i told my dad i needed some money for a new pair of shoes. after some struggle, i got the shoes. and then, something strange happened; i got another pair of shoes.

this was unprecedented. i had always just had one pair at a time. it was heady and strange to be able to decide which shoes i was going to wear that day. i remember sitting in my room feeling giddy at the prospect. and it didn’t stop there. unlike my mother who harbors a profound disdain for the acquisition of things, my dad, he comes from stuff-likers. so. suddenly, i had stuff. items were given to me and neither rescinded nor destroyed. as such, i was able to amass a selection of things. and though i knew intellectually i was going to be able to keep these things, i became rather attached to the notion of having stuff, keeping that stuff, and getting new stuff to join it.

and in this way, i am still pretty much 12 years old.

never is this more apparent than when i cleaning. my god, i have a lot of stuff. stuff from when i was in middle school. stuff from my marriage. stuff from i have no idea where. even when i have nowhere to put it, and i am oppressed by it, i am very very reluctant to let it go. and of course, i still want more stuff too…

and what’s more, now hodie has a lot of stuff. toys, games, clothes, electronics, art supplies, books, costumes, gee-gaws, etc etc ad infinitum. as we were sorting through her room in the annual “pre-first-day-of-school-clean-and-purge” i was stunned by the quantity of crap my daughter has managed to collect. and most of this is my fault. i have definitely trained her to hold on to things; or more precisely i have encouraged her to hold on to things she would pretty much be perfectly happy to let go of. for you see, unlike her mother, she does not have deprivation consciousness, because for the most part, she has been deprived of nothing.

and so today. as we were cleaning her room, i did something i have never done before. i told her she could get rid of whatever she liked. she was not obligated to consult me about what to keep and what to be rid of. she could send off whatever struck her fancy. i didnt encourage her to to keep anything she did not want for her own purposes, and i let go the need to dictate where the things that were left ought to go. as long as everything had a place, i wasnt going to try to insist on placement or particulars; just that things were relatively tidy after all was said and done.

she was judicious for the most part. lots of books from when she was 2, stuffies she hadn’t even looked at in months, gifts from people years out of her life. she arranged her remaining things in a riot across all the flat surfaces of her room in a way that makes my fingers itch with organizational longing, but i resisted and praised her diligence.

i am happy to say that hodie does not seem to care nearly as much as i do about stuff. that she’s generally pretty happy to have it, but that it doesnt seem to be something she gives all that much thought to. and in this way, i like to think i have done a good job. the shrug of her shoulders, in the face of all those things, my best reward. even better than stuff.

it turns out watching a personal trainer tell someone else how to do a particular exercise is not the same as having them explain it to you. what’s more, eavesdropping on the personal trainer isn’t going to encourage said trainer to come over and make sure you are doing the damn thing right.

so guess what?!?

first, let me describe this monster. i’ve seen a balance ball push up before. prop your feet up on the balance ball and push up from the ground as otherwise typical. these are tough enough on their own. they demand an additional engagement of core muscles and concentration to maintain balance on top of the strength required to make the push.

but this trainer had thrown in an extra piece of tough; a bosu balancer under the hands. i knew just looking at it, it’d be tough as hell, but make for all over firmness.

pop a balance ball under your ankles too; i dare you.

i managed to do a whopping 3 of these. and frankly, i was damn proud of myself for managing that. these were brutal, brutal, brutal. i wanted to do more, but have tried recently to keep from overextending myself. oh. ha.

and actually, i felt okay at first. it wasn’t until i got through the 2nd set of pullups that followed these double-balance-ball-demon-pushups that i realized something was terribly terribly wrong.

it is now 3 full days later, i’ve been to the chiropractor, and had a massage, and i am still sore. i still can’t tell for sure if it was the pushups, but they were the only really significant shift in my workout i made that day. whatever the case, i have been a bit of a gimp the last few days. i’m really hoping i’ll be less sore in the morning so’s i can go back to the gym and hurt myself some more tomorrow.