A girl named Jim

SO.

I haven’t quite quit the gym. But I have put my membership on notice.

Let’s call it a trial separation.

WAHOO! No more gym.

And as many of you know, I have quite a tumultuous relationship with my gym.

All gyms really.

Even if I did, once upon a time, go to the gym A LOT.

All throughout my undergrad and first year of my post grad I trekked to the gym between three to five times per week.  I didn’t know how to exercise without a membership card.  As such, I participated in fitness classes where generic but frenetic electro-pop made my heartbeat irregular. I read more back issues of Sports Illustrated, US Weekly and the Economist whilst climbing to nowhere on a Stairmaster, than a chronically bored Chapters employee.

In the two months leading up to my wedding, I frequented the hallowed sweat-box known as “Fitness World” so many times one of the front desk girls asked me if I wanted a job with the company.

But oh how things have changed.

The summer after our marriage, my husband and I moved to New Westminster (a city almost gym-free compared to Vancouver) and I started a job-school schedule that demanded between 50-60 hours of my time during the week.

I was so exhausted most of the time that the last thing I wanted to do before or after work (let alone on my days off) was head to the gym. Both my body and mind completely rejected the idea of regulated exercise.

And so other than riding my bike as my preferred mode of transit, I did nothing.

My old steed Beth.

However, after two glorious months of doing nothing, I began to miss a more dynamic lifestyle.  I did not, however, on any terms, want to return to a gym.  Slowly, I started to experiment with different sorts of outdoor activities.  What I quickly realized was that my body was capable of so much more than what it is confined to within the gym.  It was (is!) literally a vehicle – a means of getting around, of exploring places I’d never been, of spending more times with family and friends.

I ramped up my pedal schedule and started biking everywhere.

Queen’s Park became my treadmill.

I only re-joined the gym life a year later because of how horrible our weather had been, and I wasn’t about to commit to working out in the dark and rain all the live long winter.

But now I’m tired.

And I’m thinking that come the end of this trial run, I may just quit it all together.

Sometimes, you just need to reboot.

Here are my top four reasons why:

1.The gym can be very expensive. Most range between 20-50 dollars a month.  Some are even higher. If you multiply those numbers by 12, you are looking at upwards of 600 dollars a year.  Mine is pretty cheap, but I still think of the pretty shiny things I can buy with those sweet cash dollars.

2. The gym is an establishment frequented by the semi-sane that can, and will, turn you the exact same way: girls in their bathing suits talking on their cells phones; guys who are more interested in checking themselves out than actually lifting weights; people who don’t clean off machines or wear proper deodorant, who butt-in before you’re done you set or feel the need to step in and provide one-on-one support because “they took a class in college once…”  I know I look quite the sight dressed in my husband’s old t-shirts and shorts.

3.The gym is inside.  I know this is a total boon when living in a deciduous rain forest, but I truly believe there is nothing more refreshing and rewarding then exercising outside, rain or shine (give or take the ferocity of the elements.  There may be times where you have to concede to Mother Nature.)  However, you will never feel better or more alive than after completing a hard fought activity on unlevel ground, gulping down fresh air as the wind cools your flushed face.

Fun fact: every single item of clothing I am wearing in this photo belongs to M, save the shorts.

4. Finally, the number one reason to quit the gym is that you can stay in shape without it.

Just remember to:

Expect changes.  The first time around I thought I could just jump into the same level of exercise that I was accustomed to at the gym.  (This was also a very silly mistake as I had also been inactive for longer than I was used to.)  Both running and biking outside has a different affect on your body than the monotony of gym machines.

It will likely tire you out at a faster rate.

If you are capable of going to the gym every week, you are capable of going for a run/bike ride/hike/walk/ every week as well!  It is very easy to feel as though because the gym is there and you’re paying for it, you have to go.  There is no reason that you should lose the resolve just because you aren’t paying for it. 

That should be a reason to go.

And for goodness sakes, use your body.

Resistance work has got to be one of the most difficult but effective workouts I have ever done.  Plus you can do it in the comfort of your own home/dorm/common room.  Push-ups, squats, lunges, planks, burpees – these exercises require no equipment and work like nothing else.

Of course I cannot guarantee that any of these things will work for anyone, let along everyone.  I wanted to write this post because I was so shocked and so happy by something I never thought I would be able to do.

I promise you will be amazed at the things you are capable of achieving.

I know I am.

Pa-pa-pa Papageno

Happy father’s day to all the beauty cat fathers out there!

Unfortunately, we seem to have re-descended into the bowels of winter out here, but never-the-less, our hearts are light, and today we are off to eat some scrumptious brunch with M’s father – D. Gruyere.

BRB…building a canoe.

My own vatter lives in Guelph Ontario, so I will be on the blower with him, just in case my carrier pigeons never reached him on time.

In honour of this day, I’ll eat some super duper healthy food, play some scrabble, and read some John Irving.

(It’s party all the time in that small Ontario town, let me tell ya! P.S. check out those hiking socks!)

Here are a few snaps of what has been coming down the pipe around these parts:

Graduation caps.

Rain soaked runs.

Scrumptious pasta.

Garden gate.

Epic treats.

In recognition of all the cool cat dad’s out there, let’s grab – if only in our imaginations – our baseball gloves, tie up our running shoes, and head down to the park to practice catching those pop flies.

But only after we’ve finished our homework.

I’ll make sure to save us a spot.

Professed love

So to continue the grand tradition of writing about all the amazing people in my life, today I am in the mood to celebrate my insane, bad-ass, genius of a husband.

You see folks, today Mr. M is graduating from Simon Fraser University with his Bachelor of Education.

Oh, and did I mention that he’s graduating at the top of his class? 

Chocolate apple and a card with an graduation owl on it!

That’s right! Today he will be honoured as the top graduate out of all the newly minted secondary school teachers.

If this were a mid-90s teen comedy, as he crossed the stage to collect his degree and medal, myself and my pack of gelled-hair, frosted tipped, mini-backpack wearing friends would simultaneously jump up and start yelling, “He’s number one! He’s number one!”

(I might yell out something different though – perhaps along the lines of, “I love you baby!” Before clasping my hands together underneath my chin, and letting my tears flow freely down my face.)

At this point EVERYBODY would start cheering, and the slightly disheveled, but ultimately cool dean standing on the stage next to M would just shake their head good naturedly (maybe even roll their eyes and laugh), and M would point to me in the crowd, shouting out something like, “We did it!” before throwing his cap into the air.

And then Smash Mouth would come out of nowhere and play us into the credits.

The dance party to end all dance parties would ensue.

End Scene.

Okay, so that’s probably not how it’s going to go down. But the sentiment is the same none the less.

I cannot really begin to explain how insanely proud and happy I am for M.

He is a phenomenal student.

He is a tremendous teacher.

His students love him.

(In fact, some of then are even in love with him.)

And at the base of it all, he is an amazing, hilarious, driven, beautiful, bonkers, inspiring individual who makes my life, and all the lives of the people he touches better.

He makes life glow.

So please, let this serve as a brief introduction to his brilliant man.

Here are some other interesting facts about this Swiss-Indian man to whom I have pledge my troth:

1.) He completed his undergraduate degree in Classical and Medieval Studies. (Or simply put – he is one gigantic nerdo.)

2.) After graduating he earned his journeyman carpentry ticket, and helped build the Olympic ski-jump for the Vancouver/Whistler 2010 games.

3.) He has read more books that probably everybody I know, combined. Dude is well read.

4.) And boy is he ever ticklish.

5.) He has horrifyingly dextrous toes. And I fear them. You should too.

6.) One of the first things I noticed about him were his calf muscles. Ooer, mama.

7.) My heart practically melts out of my feet whenever I watch him concentrating like a mad man as he plays Dead Souls. It is adorable and a half.

8.) Sometimes when he is late getting ready and I am (desperately) trying to get him out of the house, he’ll sit on the bed with his underwear on his head, because he knows it drives me up the bloody wall (but also makes me laugh.)

9. The man doesn’t know a correct song lyric for the life of him.

10.) He will change the world. He’s already doing it.

So there you have it!

And now we are off to celebrate this tremendous achievement of his, in style, with grace, and of course – great humour.

But no Smash Mouth. We’ll have none of that.

Queen of spades

Kids! Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday.

To celebrate this day, I would like to share with you a memory I keep close.

(As re-imagined as my grade-two self.)

I am seven.

My mother isn’t home very much.  We live in Vancouver but she works in Ottawa from Sunday until Friday.  She’s writing a very long decision that will make sure that all Canadian women are ensured equal pay for equal work.  I think the whole thing started with a nurse who made a complaint, but I can never be sure because I’m still suspicious about why someone would need to write a decision. 

They are usually things you just “make.” 

Then I get sick.  Like really sick.  I burn so hot that when I take a bath the water feels like it comes from an iceberg.  Sometimes I imagine I am mutating.  After I shed all of my blistered skin, I’ll emerge taller, sleeker.  I’ll be a superhero, more powerful than ever.

I can’t eat very much and when I do I throw up.   

When my mother tells me that she’s taking a week off to look after me, I nearly jump off the bed with excitement.  

I spend the week wrapped in blankets and fleece, flushed and feverish, my mother sitting next to me.  I wear and wash my favourite pajamas every morning so I don’t have to wear something new.  It is a long dress and it is light blue, with a sleepy but stern looking owl printed on its front. 

It is my favourite.

In between my ice bathes and simple mouthfuls of vegetable broth, we take turns reading aloud from The Secret Garden. 

My mother doesn’t ever do voices when she reads, but her tone is soothing. 

Simple.

Perfect.

I want to run away to the North of England.  I want to skip rope amid the twists and turns of a sprawling manor estate, fall in love with gentle Yorkshire boys who can tend to the earth and talk to animals, and eat hot, crunchy biscuits smothered in butter and jam.

I want to be friends with Miss Mary, learn to plant seeds, feel fresh earth between my fingers, and chirp at cheeky robins that flit and flutter under a low-hanging sky.

But mostly I want to find a garden of my own.  I want to discover a place that has been shut up and forgotten and reawaken the magic, magnificence, mayhem and majesty that once flourished there.

A place where I will be safe and strong and smart and stupefying in my splendour.

A place where I can be free.

Growing up my little sister and I spent every conceivable minute playing outside.  And when we weren’t outside, we were building forts in our basement. Our overactive, bizarre and totally bonkers imaginations ensured that we were never bored and never without a storyline to pursue.

And yet, despite the number of times I played in our garden, or the front yard, or at the park, or in the school yard, or the overgrown alleyway, I never truly felt how I had hoped to feel, when reading about Mary Collins’ adventures in her secret place.

Now, as a bizarre, slightly bonkers adult, I still search for that feeling, this tangible moment of discovery and awe.

Last summer I had the chance to visit a garden where I had, for an all too brief a time, that moment.

It was a place of magic and mayhem.

(But the good mayhem, not “the Bay is being looted and my car is on fire.”)

It was a place of discovery and awe, governed by a beauty tied to a nature no one believes in anymore and the stories of the all too few that do.

Dreaming of a garden for you today (and tomorrow) momma!

Happy natal day to you.

Mixed Nuts

This weekend was as jam packed as an unopened jam jar.

It was a really great mix of time spent with friends and family, excellent food, and of course beauty, brilliance and hilarity.

Here are a few highlights from the past two days:

Brilliant brunches.

Bean Sprouts.

Smoking smokers.

Post-Prometheus chai.

Dream House.

Dream lunch.

Super dog.

Secret messages.

Yesterday was Italian Days along the length of Commercial drive. Luckily the rain stayed away and we, along with M’s sister V, her partner J, and his parents E (alias Darth Gruyere) and C, walked the length of the street, taking in all the different sights, sounds, and smells the festival had to offer.

It was a really lovely way of spending an afternoon.

(Though next time we are really going to need to get our mitts on some cannolis. And by some, I mean all of them. And by mitts, I mean mouths.)

On Saturday night M and I went to the pictures and took in Ridley Scott’s latest oeuvre – Prometheus.

Going to the movies is always a bit of a trip for us because we pretty much never go anymore.

Like, ever.

This is a bit strange because at the beginning of our relationship you would be hard pressed not to find us in a movie theatre at least once a week. (M was even a projectionist at two of the local independent theatres in the city during his undergrad.)

Now, we maybe take in a film twice a year at most.

I suppose we’ve just lost that interest. That spark.

(Perhaps we’re just waiting for the mother load of a movie to blast us back to our former selves? We’re not sure.)

Either way, this trip we did not hit pay dirt.

My tweet that night summed up how I felt (in under 140 characters) about the film: I LOVE Alien/Aliens, but – there’s a reason why they’re separate movies. Trying to make both at the same time just doesn’t work. #prometheus

If you want a much longer take on how I felt about the movie, please read this absolutely brilliant and gut-busting hilarious review by  Henry Rothwell.

It’s magic.

And (in my opinion) bang on.

In terms of tough mudder: t-minus less than two weeks to lift off!

Yesterday I had one cracking run. I completed 15.4 km in 1:08 – one of my fastest runs to day. And that was after running 12 km on Saturday, combined with my circuit strength training.

I’m feeling really strong, and goodness knows the callouses on my hands are forming personalities of their own.

I can’t really tell you guys how stoked I am to drive up to Whistler and see what the course has in store for us.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – I, under no circumstances, believe that this is going to be a walk in the park. I know full well how greweling the entire experience is sure to be.

But heck if that doesn’t make me any less excited!

I am ready to get my mudder on, and get it on hard.

 Tonight Mr. M and I ate farfelle with vine ripened tomatoes, kalamata olives, fresh basil, and paremesan cheese. We watched Sunshine.

It’s still cold, but things are slowly changing.

When you’re moving this fast, they’re bound too.