Riled Up Runner

Friends, remember how, at the onset of summer, I had just joined a barre studio and was extolling its virtues? (I’ll remind you: I wrote about it here, before going MIA for pretty much the remainder of the season. My bad. And here I thought my ghosting days were behind me.)

Well, I’ve now been a card carrying member at Barre 3 for SIX months, and boy, has my body changed.

Although Barre 3 is adamant you won’t find a scale inside — it preaches balance and strength instead of inches and pounds — I imagine a lot of members still go into a cardio/free weights/pilates class like this hoping for some serious toning — or at least better fitting jeans. And who can blame them?

Since joining in April, I’ve religiously suited up two to three three times a week for these 60-minute workout classes, including more 5 a.m. wakeup calls that I can count. I estimate I’ve done dozens of planks, hundreds of crescent lunges and thousands of sumo squats in the past two quarters, hands down. And let’s not forget those hours and hours of ab work.

You saw the before photo above.

Now brace yourself for the after photo:

SURPRISE! I’m having a baby.

If I haven’t told you yet in person, you might have pieced it together from the fact that we just moved apartments or from my suspicious May confession that the idea of vegetables made me want to puke. But mostly, no one would blame you for having no idea, because, let’s be honest, I’ve kept it really, really quiet online.

Why, you ask? Maybe because I’m terrified of jinxing things. Or maybe because I’m a pretty private person, blog be damned. Or maybe because I wanted to tell Lucille before the rest of you, and despite ALL my attempts to spell it out for her, she’s remained blissfully oblivious to the big change that’s coming her way.

Seriously, though. I’ve tried everything.

I’ve tried showing her all the puppy, I mean baby, sized clothing we’re collecting:

I’ve tried introducing her to the other puppies, I mean babies, in our life:

I’ve tried putting her in charge of puppy, I mean baby, kick counts:

But no matter what I do, something tells me eight weeks from now, she’s going to be very, very surprised to realize how much her life has changed.

Then again, so are we. 

Given the chance for a do-over in life, I’d probably take it.

Now I’m not talking about the big stuff, like who I’d choose to marry or what profession to pursue or whether to stream Queer Eye Season 4 as slowly as humanly possible to savor every last corgi scene. But there are literally hundreds of little things I didn’t do right the first time around that just nag at me, and I’d love the chance to start over with a clean slate.

Stuff like investing fully in my 401K as a 22 year old, or collecting airline miles consistently, or making exercise part of my routine decades before I did. From wearing my retainer at night (R.I.P. American smile) to maintaining my language skills after a semester in Madrid, it wouldn’t have been that hard at the time, but at this point, change just feels like a lost cause. 

Of course, I know that’s not a healthy way to think. Just because you haven’t been, say, eating well in recent months doesn’t mean there’s no point in starting now. I mean, you wouldn’t refuse to go to a doctor just because you haven’t been before, right? But for the littlest stuff – the habits it SHOULD be easiest to tweak – it’s easy to see change as futile. As Barney Stinson tells his father in a 2011 episode of How I Met Your Mother, I’m too far gone.

But lo, sometimes life DOES throw you a do-over. Welcome to our new apartment.

Our old apartment, where we nested for three view-filled years, was great for a lot of reasons, but I felt like I never got it set up quite right. The closets were deep (which should be a good thing) but it meant I could never reach the things I’d stored in the back. Same in the kitchen – bakeware stacked high in deep cabinets isn’t that accessible, and I found myself shying away from home-cooked meals if I knew the recipe called for any tools not on the top of the stack. I suppose I could have taken everything out and done a massive reorganization, but the task just felt so daunting that I sucked up, left things unchanged and ordered a lot of saag paneer take-out. (Thank you, Raj’s Indian Kitchen, for sustaining us those 1,095 nights.)

But last week, our lease expired and we opted to move to a charming new apartment, and GUESS WHAT THAT MEANS, FOLKS: a clean slate. That’s right: a rare chance to do it all over again, from the start. And I’ve taken it to heart.

I’ve Marie Kondo-ed my drawers. OK, probably not well, given I’ve never seen the show and didn’t get rid of enough joyless stuff, but I did stack my clothes vertically so I can always see what’s there without digging.

I’ve stored my tupperware and lids together, like god intended. Why have I never done this before? Right, because I’ve lacked space and, fine, patience.

I’ve found a place for everything inside my closets [yes, you read that right, I have two], and I’m committed to always putting things back where I got them, even if it seems like more work now. And if I mess up, I have this vicious closet enforcer to remind me.

Is there a chance in two months, I revisit this post and realize it’s all gone to hell in a handbasket? Yes, that’s a very distinct possibility. But a little organization sure feels nice right now. And hey, if it gets messed up, we can always move again, right?

What are your tricks for keeping organized that don’t involve, you know, having less stuff?

 

 

 

Whether or not you know her, it’s time I lay it out there: I trust my friend Rogan’s opinion on just about everything. Not only does she have excellent taste in NYC roommates and undergrad liberal arts colleges, but I also defer to her on all red wine selection, white wine selection and Irish fiddle etiquette. And let’s not forget her burgeoning political career. Yessiree, (Sheriff) Rogan’s going places.

I generally trust Rogan’s good judgement without question, which is why I was so startled when she revealed to me several years ago that she traveled most weekends ALL THE WAY TO THE WEST VILLAGE to take her favorite barre class, Barre 3. “But there are studios literally 45 minutes closer to the Upper East Side,” I said to myself, and likely, also directly (and full of judgement) to my friend’s face. “Why would you ever take yourself out of the city’s grid structure voluntarily for some workout that can’t possibly be better than other barre classes?”

And then I took a Barre 3 class. Dear reader, I was wrong.

Unlike other barre classes I’ve taken, which tend to make me feel inflexible (when the instructors say things like “and now everyone do your version of a split!”) or weak (when I can’t hold 2-pound weights for the duration of strength training) or furious (when my grippy socks make it hard to plank on carpet), Barre 3 classes do for me exactly what I want: they make me feel sweaty and energized and empowered.

So what makes it better for me? I’ve been trying to put into words what I like about this specific workout, which in theory isn’t all that different than other ball/barre-based pilates-like classes out there. I think it comes down to these things (but, let’s be honest, it also may come down to the fact that a gorgeous new studio just opened a 7 minute walk from my apartment):

1. There’s a lot less tucking. In other barre classes, I’ve found there’s a lot of emphasis on the pelvis and whether it’s tucked correctly. But here’s the problem – how can you possibly tell if your pelvis tilt is right when it’s nothing you can see? I find it insanely frustrating to spend so much of a class doing an invisible exercise and not even know if I’m doing it correctly. In Barre 3, no one’s mentioned my pelvis once, and for that, I’m grateful.
2. There’s more of a cardio focus. In addition to barre staples like glute and core work, there’s always a long section of combo work intended to get the heart rate up – think 80s aerobics class mixed with vinyasa flow. Mixing up the barre-staple “move small” movements like pulses with “move big” breaks like crescent lunges helps make the 60 minutes bearable.
3. There’s a lot of body positivity and mindfulness. This class always ends with a few minutes of breath work in shavasana, which – let’s not lie to ourselves – is everyone’s favorite part of yoga. I’ve been in other barre classes where half the class sneaks out after core and skips stretching, but at Barre 3, it seems nearly everyone wants to stay through to the end to unwind and relax her mind. It’s a healthy mindset, and a good reminder that exercise isn’t just for the physical muscles.
4. My studio is so damn cute. I like succulents and exposed brick and natural wood like the good millennial I am – so sue me. But I’ve also now been to the equally adorable Toronto studio, and I can attest that the aesthetic is good everywhere – as is the friendly vibe. My studio also has free coffee. Win.

I am a studio member, at least until I move out of Long Island City when our lease is up (RIP view), meaning I can bring first time guests free, so hit me up if you want to see it for yourself. Or we can just meet at the bar.

Have you tried Barre 3? And does this sound like sponsored content? I swear it’s not!

Before Lucille — or even Ben — graced these pages, about 85% of my posts were dedicated to a certain goldendoodle with great hair, a sunny personality and immediate star power that probably warranted its own spin-off blog but then what would I have written about here? Oh yeah, running. Forgot that’s what I founded this thing on back in 2012.

If you felt a disturbance in the force yesterday, you weren’t imagining it: Keira, my original muse and the poodle mix voted most likely to play Joe Biden in a musical, passed away at the far too young age of seven. I know I owe her perfect prose and a eugoogaly to make Derek Zoolander proud, but I’m too profoundly sad to be funny or thoughtful tonight. So instead, I bring you six life lessons that my brother’s very special pup taught me, complete with — of course — photos. Because, let’s be honest, Keira would have wanted it that way.

Without further ado, I present to you a pictorial recap of everything Keira taught me as a runner, not least of which was that time she ate an entire crockpot of gravy until she nearly burst, making her, quite clearly, my self-control spirit animal.

Keira Life Lesson No. 1: ALWAYS BE PREPARED. 

Keira Life Lesson No. 2: DRESS FOR THE ELEMENTS.

Keira Life Lesson No. 3: DON’T RACE HUNGRY.

Keira Life Lesson No. 4: DON’T SWEAT A BAD HAIR DAY.

Keira Life Lesson No. 5: GET GOOD SLEEP.

Keira Life Lesson No. 6: ENJOY IT.

Rest in peace, K. 

Weddings — no matter how you slice it — tend to be pretty decadent affairs.

• If you’re a guest, it means hours of unlimited crab dip and bubbly, unless you were at our wedding, in which case you strangely chose to drink the bar dry of totally healthy full-cream White Russians. Mmm.

• If you’re a bridesmaid, it’s that plus two extra weekends of Bloody Marys and Mimosas and cute hashtags and hangover quiches, all of which can hit your waistline.

• If you’re the bride, it’s all of the above — and a year of celebratory toasts and cake trials and a whole additional dinner where you literally taste everything you’ll be eating again in six months’ time.

(And you wonder why the global industrial bridal complex tries to convince us all we need to lose weight.)

It’s this notion — that weddings are unhealthy and there’s nothing you can do about — that many of us resign ourselves to as we enter the celebratory season. But in 2018, I’ve noticed a wonderful new trend emerge: every one of my girlfriends to tie the knot this year invited her friends to a sweaty, empowering fitness class to build excitement (and muscle!) for the big day. Who says a party can’t be healthy.

In March, we did a barre class with the world’s tiniest mats at a West Side dance studio to celebrate some upcoming nuptials.

In April, we did a reformer class in Venice Beach because the super fit bride wanted to torture me for learning to read before her in kindergarten show me her favorite kind of machine-based core-stabilizing workout.

And just last month, we celebrated another happy couple with kettlebell swings and burpees at the very intense Fhitting Room on Manhattan’s Upper East Side that my hamstrings are still reeling from.

After the bridal workouts, did I still go on to drink seven glasses of white and eat all the bacon-wrapped things within arm’s reach during the main event? You know I did. But I did it with a little more muscle, and THAT’s my kind of wedding mass.

(Now don’t get me wrong: weddings are not just about the bride. The groom is very important too. And speaking of grooms…)