Standards

What do I consider a decent work-out? A good 50-80 rounds of the staircase by the canal done at an even, brisk pace. Walking, not running. It may take longer - if you have the stamina to run - but it still works up a respectable sweat and leaves your legs (or at least mine) in the Jell-O-like state I mentioned earlier. So what standard did Sebastian set when he climbed the stairs with me the other day? He ran. And managed to do 80 reps during the time it took me to finish 50.

It would have been impressive if I hadn't been slightly jealous at his frightening ability to speed through climb after climb. Or if I hadn't had the impression that it got harder for me to make each ascent every time I watched him come blazing past me. But do I get the last laugh? He's definitely *far* more tired than I am afterwards...in spite of a 3-day respite from all exercise thanks to some *very* sore back muscles (I think I pulled them in a vicious self-punishing attempt to deadlift 50 lbs.), I still bounced back from my gruelling match with the stairs faster than Sebastian has. Maybe it's because I'm used to it. Maybe it's because I didn't push myself to sprint up 280 flights of stairs. Maybe it's both. Either way, I'm both impressed and pitying. Never has the phrase "I told you not to!" held so little joy. At least today will afford him a chance to recuperate, sitting in a chair at the office.

Speaking of differing standards, I know this is a repeat from my current Facebook status, but what is so appealing about someone who's sweaty, with no make-up on, and wearing sneakers, jeans, and a faded t-shirt that's a size too big?

Just who is the unattractive specimen I'm describing? None other than Yours Truly, post-gym session today. Having sweated it out, quite literally, for about 2 hours doing cardio, *heavy* weights, and - masochist that I am - more cardio, I was not in a fit state to be seen in a public place. That said, public was just where I had to wander through in my salty, stinky state in order to get home and enjoy the Elysium that is a shower. I make my apologies in advance for anyone who sits next to me on the Tube in such a condition for the next few months.

My hair was sweaty (gross), curly (not a problem when it isn't sweat-soaked), and unbrushed; tied back in an efficient knot atop my head. My headband was barely helping matters as it, too, was soaked through thanks to the exertions of the previous two hours. I had changed into my jeans and t-shirt to avoid the sweaty lycra-spandex affair that is me at the gym when walking down the street. There are only so many places where sweat-stained skin-tights are appropriate: outside on the Southbank is not one of them. My lovely sports bra was still on: a useful, yet medieval affair that I swear leaves me looking like Madonna in her "Like a Virgin" cone bra...if Madonna had chaired the Itty Bitty Cone Bra Committee. Summary: entirely unappealing - Paris Hilton sunglasses not withstanding.

So why, then, was I followed by a succession of teenage boys, clearly just out of school for the day, trying to catch my name, whistle at me, and inform me that I was incredibly good-looking? Did these simple, acne-covered youth not realise how disgusting I was? I wasn't even wearing cute shoes! My jeans had stretched out from too long without going through the dryer to reshrink them! I had on no make-up and my hair was only "done" in the sense that it wasn't let loose to hang limp and dishevelled in damp waves and curls. If that look - the "I've-just-lifted-weights-in-a-room-full-of-sweaty-men" look - is what gets it going for teenage boys, I see clearly what I was doing wrong in high school. Apparently if I'd just rolled out of bed and gone for a run before seminary without bothering to shower after, I could have had my pick of boys! My Friday nights would have been booked through graduation.

However, I did get to use - if pre-emtpively - my latest response to unwanted attention from members of the opposite sex who seem to have crawled out of the shallower end of the gene pool. After walking away without stopping from the first pubescent cat-caller, another one, encouraged by his friends, jogged to catch up to me. My attention remained fixed solidly on my iPod in selecting a song. So he ran up to walk beside me and asked, "What's your name?" I asked, "why?" though I said it politely and with a smile. His answer: "Because I think you're really attractive." Without taking my eyes off my iPod, I responded to him, "Well, I thank you, but my husband thinks so, too." And with that, I continued walking away. Needless to say, I think their tiny little pubescent hearts were crushed.

This is one of many reasons why you don't try to pull a girl who walks past you on the sidewalk. That's what bars, pubs, clubs, the hallways at school, and dances are for. Sidewalks are, officially, NOT an appropriate venue for date-hunting. Officially.

Stairway to the Stars - Ella Fitzgerald

Today was another day of lovely masochistic stair-climbing. There's a strange joy in the 0.75-mile run back to my house from the giant staircase by Regent's Canal. Mostly that's because after 80 reps of those 3.5 flights of stairs bracketed between 1.5 miles of jogging my legs go all wobbly like jelly. Seriously, Bill Cosby and those old Jell-O adverts have nothing on me after a set of stairs.

I'm mostly pleased with myself because each time I've set a goal to do a certain number of reps - Jell-O legs and all - I've managed to keep it. I did 50 reps the first time: 175 flights of stairs. 75 reps the next time: 262.5 flights of stairs. Today's 80 reps puts me at a respectable 280 flights of stairs. If I can hold steady at 80 reps each time I do those stairs (my aim is at least twice a week), then I'm back on par with what I was doing last year at Wake. Granted, I was doing that 5 days a week, but as I have a gym membership I've paid for at school, I'm definitely using it while the time lasts. I'm getting my money's worth; much as I love the free and punishing steps by the canal.

Making the most of my money aside, I do have to sing the praises of those stairs. Yes, they're dirty. Yes, they're regularly appropriated by cyclists who love to flout this segment of the towpath's "No Cycling" signs. (Seriously, 3 syllables is too difficult to decipher?) Yes, sometimes people look at my like I'm crazy as I chant out a number each time I reach the top, only to descend again and repeat the whole process. Those things don't bother me. Okay, the dirtiness bugs me a bit, but that's just because I stare at it for about an hour and half each time I go. But I normally go in the mornings and so I have a lovely view down the canal each time I reach the stop of the stairs. Sure the water's a frightening shade I'd like to call "Urban Pollution Grey", but it still reflects the sunlight beautifully...and I haven't seen any three-footed, two-headed ducks swimming around. There's always a great breeze from the middle of the stairs upward - perfect for cooling down when I've probably been sweating enough to refill my water bottle. (Gross, I know.) *And*, I get to watch all the tour-boats and house-boats go past - something I always enjoy about running along the towpath. It's a generally idyllic setting to do some gut-busting cardio.

Really the only downside I can find now is that I'm going to have to invest in some longer Under Armour tights STAT, along with some sunblock. Otherwise, I'm going to be sporting a less-than-attractive exercise-shorts-tan on my honeymoon. Let's face it: my swimsuit look is completely *without* awkward tan lines, thank you very much.

My treat to myself has been that when grocery shopping today, I indulged in my favourite cold breakfast food: Nature Valley Canadian Maple Syrup-flavoured granola bars! Oh the mapley goodness. If I'm too lazy for French Toast or pancakes (the American kind, buttermilk and all) this is definitely the next best thing. Okay, I confess, I tell a lie, the next best thing would be four Bavarian Creme Dunkin' Donuts and two pints of 2% milk that magically didn't pack on the fat. But magic doughnuts aside (seriously, someone get on that! Fat-burning doughnuts would be a goldmine!), I'm very happy with my granola bars and a huge pint of H2O.

Next steps in conquering my life: finish my paper on Soviet nationality policy, actually go to the British Library for my dissertation, come up with a floor plan for my wedding reception. I just climbed 280 flights of stairs: I'm Superwoman. I can *so* handle this.

"I Can Has Shoes?" and The Emulation of FitNasti

So yesterday, I decided that retail therapy was the order of the day. Aside from my apartment, the only other places I've seen (or that I feel like I've seen) in the last few weeks have been 1) the church, 2) Sebastian's house, and 3) the gym. The Tube doesn't count.

With that in mind, on my way home from the gym, I made a pit stop at Oxford Street. Window shopping was the order of the day, and to make it all feel marginally more acceptable, I decided to go window shopping for wedding accessories. Much as there's still some degree of angst in my parsimonious soul every time I buy something that isn't strictly necessary, I managed to make my purchases yesterday with the minimum of buyer's remorse. It's not that I ever really wish I could return the items and have the money safely stowed away in my account once more, I'm just cheap and hate spending money. That said, I do have a weakness for shoes, and shoes were precisely what I needed to get for my wedding ensemble, STAT.

With that idea in mind, I ambled in and out of store after store, whether they had shoes or not. I was enjoying the sunshine and the fact that for an hour or so I could indulge in being entirely self-absorbed and vapid. Since shoes are always your friend, no matter how fat you feel, I didn't have to worry about slimming down for the wedding; thoughts of Soviet nationalism policy and the heroisation of Napoleon were far from my mind; the mountain of my flatmate's dirty dishes - a constant source of blood-boiling irritation that may eventually result in his bodily harm at my hands - was, for the moment, forgotten. All that mattered was enjoying my search for The Shoes.

Incidentally, I found them in the first store where I actually took my search seriously. I know - it's almost a cardinal sin of shopping sensibly to buy the first thing you see, but these shoes were it. A low rise, a wedge - not a heel - a tiny peep-toe, and (the Holy Grail of wedding shoes) I can wear them again.

Rejoice! Rejoice! The quest is at an end! I thought for ages that I was being too picky and that I might, in the end, have to settle for some dreaded be-jewelled, be-glittered monstrosity of a strappy sandal with heels that could make even Prince feel like a towering giant. Really, it's the little things that make me happy. Like my other indulgence which is also a practical purchase...another pair of shoes.

I highly endorse Tom's Shoes. For every pair of super cute flats you buy from them, they donate a pair of shoes to a child who doesn't have any. How cool is that!? And, considering that my gold Old Navy flats are well on the way out, and I've worn holes in the toes of the boots I bought at Debenhams this winter, a new pair of shoes to last me through the autumn are well in order. My lovely new purchase just came through the door and (after a brief pause in typing) my feet are in their snuggly and politically-aware embrace.

In a continuing wave of feel-good-ness, I climbed the equivalent of 175 flights of stairs today and ran about 2 miles on top of that. Why? The Dress. And because I haven't done it in nearly a year - back in the good days at Wake Forest when the StairMaster was my close, personal friend. I felt like such a champ when I finished my 50th ascent of the 3.5-flight jumble of stairs down by the canal. One runner passed me on his way up the stairs and asked, "how long have you been doing this now?" I smiled and told him, "well, this last one makes 40!" He smiled and ran away. Another guy was riding bikes with his friend. After the usual polite one-sided flirtation, he waited for his friend to get it together while I descended the stairs. "Oh, coming to join us?" he asked jokingly. But when I smiled and turned back around without stopping to climb the stairs once more, his tone changed. "Oh! She's doing stairs!" He was in disbelief; "she's sick!" Though I was still only halfway through my 50 reps, I felt like I'd earned the massive respect apparent in his voice. That's right: I'm sick.

In my new-found (or re-found) commitment to the stairs and all things gym-tastic, I must give props to my friend Nina and her amazing example. Her blog, FitNasti, which I've mentioned before has been chronicling her progress to being a hard-core figure competitor. Reading Nina's blog helped me remember why I started doing this in the first place. 1) Because I feel so good proving that I can do something like climb 175 flights of stairs. 2) Because once I've put in that hard work, I look good. And I make no apologies for how cocky that sounded.