Tag Archive | Exercise

Accountability

When I sort of accidentally began this journey, accountability was a big thing for me. I talked about it. Owned it. Showed it. Through daily full body Instagram photos, I am holding myself accountable to myself and to (I’d like to think) the world for my fitness and health, whether I do or don’t meet my goals for that day, week or whatever.

Just recently, I’ve begun adding food pics to the mix, which I had been doing from time to time before, but that’s when I was flaky about it all and could easily have had a salad for lunch and fried chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. You’d see the pretty picture of the salad, but you wouldn’t see and I wouldn’t speak of the fried chicken.

I guess it’s like the proverbial tree in the forest. If I eat it and no one’s around to witness it, does that mean it didn’t happen? Well, I knew that couldn’t last because even if I didn’t post pictures of every meal, I repeat, I post full body shots of myself every single day, so you would know something went awry, somewhere. I wouldn’t be telling the truth. I wouldn’t be telling my truth. And there are many parts to my truth.

The truth is, if this were five days ago, I’d have either a vodka cranberry or a glass of wine in my hand. And if I’m going to tell the truth, five days ago, I DID have a vodka cranberry in my hand, and followed it up with several more. And let’s just throw a couple of shots of tequila in there for sport, because that happened, too.

Also, a hangover happened, and though I’ve posted a vicious hangover selfie on Instagram, I made sure I got myself together before I posted my daily shot, and I still went walking/jogging.

I haven’t had a drink since Sunday and that’s in part because I’ve been thinking a lot about this accountability thing and also because a friend challenged me to a strict seven day fitness thingy that doesn’t allow for alcohol.

It’s been easy. Unbelievably easy until today, when my day wasn’t so good, when my relationship isn’t glowing that perfect glow, when I’m so annoyed/pissed/mad/sad that I just want to numb myself with a vodka neat or a whole bottle of wine. And yes, I can take down a whole bottle…and a half.

So, far I’m resisting. Sipping iced water and channeling this negative energy into new words and promoting Can’t Get Enough. And I think I’m able to resist mostly out of stubbornness and a small part of me thinks it may be an around about attempt at sabotage because my husband of course lives with me, knows my habits, my weaknesses and unfortunately, my triggers.

It’s good to get that off my chest. I’ll let  you know how it turns out tomorrow. Honestly.

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Walking and Writing

So, something happened. Not that thing discussed in extensive detail right below this post, but another thing, or to be more accurate, things.

I started walking again. Now, for those of you who don’t get here often, I haven’t been wheelchair bound or anything of the sort. But, due to an ankle fracture, broken bone in my foot and the general shitty-ness of Lyme disease, my afore established exercise regimen came to a screeching halt. That was four months ago.

I hadn’t made any solid plans to start up again, but on Wednesday when I decided to walk the dog (about ten minutes, three to four times a day) my husband decided to join me and make it a joint exercise effort. I was game, but I didn’t think we’d go as far as we did.

We wound up walking over three miles. It was midday, so it was pretty hot and it took us just over an hour. The dog wasn’t too happy about it, though. I, however, felt fantastic and decided that that day would be my Day 1.

Day 1 of how many you may ask? Well, I don’t have the answer, yet. I don’t want to jinx myself or set myself up for failure by setting hard goals, but what I have done is made myself accountable to my Instragram account, where every morning, before I do whatever workout I’m going to do (right now it’s walking) I post a picture of myself. And I’m talking full body shots. Nothing from the face up with clever angling that makes me look cuter and thinner.

This is the true definition of no filter. It is what it is. Take me as I am, and how I will be, at Day whatever.

Also, I’ve been at the writing table actually writing for the past three days, averaging 1100 or so words a day. It’s chapters for a novel I plan to pitch and it’s going just swell.

Now, I generally link to Facebook and Twitter when I post my daily picture, but if I forget, am in a hurry, or my mind is cloudy as usual, feel free to follow my Instagram account (@therealtenille) and watch my journey, day by day. And oh, cheer me on! Call me out! Keep me accountable!

Let’s do this.

The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker Makes An Impression

butcher

It seemed more than coincidence to me that I wound up with Suzanne Portnoy’s The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker in my hands to review. Its original release was in 2006, a year that flew right by me because I was in the midst of a separation from my two children’s father, moving back in with my mother, losing my full-time job and entering a brand new relationship.

At that time, the world around me was reading about a 40-year old divorcee’s wildly erotic adventures. Now fast forward seven years, the book has been re-released, and my life has changed dramatically and fresh meat like me got the opportunity to climb into bed with it for the very first time.

I knew when researching the book what is was about and what I didn’t want to write about it. Yes there is sex and yes it is sexy…very, very sexy. And I only got that out of the way to allow me to say that that there’s some really good stuff here. And in this instance the stuff I’m referring to is Suzanne’s superb writing.
The sex inside the pages wooed me, but Suzanne’s way with words wowed me.

The scenarios presented in this memoir were so magically painted that it almost read like an erotic novel, and while I believe that fantasy is great, anyone who knows me knows I like my sex with a little reality. That makes it perfect that there is plenty of emotion tied in with this erotic memoir’s mistress, Suzanne’s couplings.

No way does she does she make the mistake of confusing sex with love, not even in the beginning after she has sewn what she thought were her wild oats and settled down and married. She doesn’t look for love in sex – not in dives, not in sex clubs or in saunas.

She also doesn’t present us with a faux representation of what it’s like to be a mother of two, over forty, and sexing again in happening cities like London and New York a la Sex and the City’s Samantha Jones.

Suzanne has her share of thrills and her share of disappointments, and what will keep her readers turning the pages and ultimately hesitating to close the book is that through it all she gets right back up and tries again.
The Butcher, The Baker tugged me every which way. It made me happy to be currently married and out of the dating scene, but also made me wish I and made more of the free time I had between marriages.

However, The Butcher, The Baker is not just for the mature, divorced woman, it’s for the adventurous couple, it’s for the curious single, it’s for the voyeuristic man which she so eloquently writes about… it’s for the woman who wants to wrap her hands around a firm glass of cabernet and swallow hard as she devours every delicious word.