Hitting the Gym

After several months of consideration, I have decided to join a gym. It's quite a big step for me, as I've always maintained that I hate gyms. That said, my only real experience of them was the athletic centre of one of the universities here in Halifax. I used to go there semi-regularly as an undergraduate, to do step aerobics (which should tell you how long ago that was - how hopelessly passé). I never liked the damp, smelly locker rooms, nor the fieldhouse itself, not least because it had no private spaces for fitness classes. The facility had an elevated running track around its entire perimeter, which led to the not-very-nice experience of being watched, while one exercised, by men who were running laps around the track. Some were surreptitious in their glances as they went by, but others were quite blatant oglers, who would stop running, lean against the track railing with big grins on their faces, and enjoy the sight of all us ladies aerobicising.

So since that time, I've always avoided gyms, preferring to use exercise videos/DVDs at home instead. But exercise trends and venues change. Last year, I noted with interest that a women-only gym, GoodLife, had opened on the upper level of our local grocery store (?!). I liked the idea of an all-female facility, plus I've recently started weight training and I thought I might progress to using some professional weight equipment. Then two months ago, GoodLife dropped a leaflet through my letterbox, offering a two-week trial for $20. I decided to give that a go...and was quite surprised and impressed by what I found. It's a very well-kept facility, with nice change rooms, a good selection of equipment, and a full schedule of group fitness classes as well. I had an induction to the weight-machines circuit, and also learned how to use the treadmills and elliptical trainers. Finally, I tried three group classes - one cardio class with weights (which was very good but left my muscles in a world of pain for three days after), one cardio-dance class (who'dve thought I'd ever do The Robot in public?!), and one yoga/pilates/Tai Chi-hybrid class (in which I totally kicked ass...heh).

So, I've decided to give the gym thing a fresh start. A few weeks ago I met a woman who wanted out of her annual subscription, so I have taken over for the last five months of her membership (to the end of September). By then, I'll definitely know if I'll get good use out of it, and if gyms are really for me after all.

Sugar Mama

Boy, MySpace sure is funny. Like most women, I receive cheesy come-ons from sleazy guys fairly regularly, via my mailbox on the site. They're always good for a laugh before I hit the delete button.

This one, which I received yesterday from "Zack" in West Africa was especially audacious. He writes:

My name is zack, I am 19 years old and I am a pupil in class terminal and I wish to continue my studies in Canada. I have already sent my files to the university of Laval ( qébec ) for the registrations.
That is why I come to you to wonder a help to sponsor my studies just for the first year. I also want that you look for some informations for me about this university.
I am waitingt for a favorable continuation.
Thank you in advance...

I had a giggle, then took a look at this guy's profile. As further enticement for me to open my wallet and work my Canadian university contacts, he has posted various shirtless photos of himself, and in the "About Me" section he notes: "Im student ,Im 19 & Im looking 4 white wife like U." [sic]

Sadly for Zack, I'm not available to become his wife. Hahahahaaaa.

"It's Not You, It's Your Books"

This little NYT essay on literary incompatibility in relationships is a fun little read for a Sunday morning.

As an aside, the more social pieces I read from the New York Times, the more I think it must be kind of awful to be a single woman in Manhattan, looking for a meaningful relationship. Is the dating scene there really as ruthless as it seems? Talk about high standards...yikes.

Zapped

I am playing nursemaid for the next few days. This evening A. had laser surgery on his eyes, so he won't have to wear glasses anymore. Presently the patient is resting and wearing a large pair of Ray Charles-esque disposable shades, which are pretty funny.

I've thought many times about having the same procedure myself. It would be amazing to wake up in the morning, open my eyes, and be able to see clearly without having to fumble for my specs on the bedside table. But I'm not ready to take the plunge just yet. My glasses have been part of who I am for so long that I think I'd feel kinda weird without them. Plus, as I've said before, you don't need a degree in rocket science to realise that zapping your eyeballs with laser beams is possibly not the greatest idea.

Stuff White People Like

Found a great blog today called Stuff White People Like. Pretty funny - but god, are we all so predictable? I admit to being guilty as charged, as regards the following items from the list:

#93 Free Healthcare
#90 Dinner Parties
#83 Bad Memories of High School
#81 Graduate School
#72 Study Abroad
#64 Recycling
#61 Bicycles
#54 Kitchen Gadgets
#51 Living by the Water
#49 Vintage
#47 Arts Degrees
#46 The Sunday New York Times
#44 Public Radio
#43 Plays
#40 Apple Products
#37 Renovations
#36 Breakfast Places
#29 80s Night
#24 Wine
#19 Traveling
#15 Yoga
#13 Tea
#12 Non-Profit Organizations
#5 Farmer’s Markets

Actually, I think they should change the name of this blog to Stuff Upper-Middle-Class American White People Like - as evinced by #75: Threatening to Move to Canada. Haha!

William Dalrymple

Last night, I went to a lecture by William Dalrymple, a prizewinning popular historian of British India. Having him come here to Halifax is quite a coup, I think. He spoke about his latest book, The Last Mughal: Fall of a Dynasty, Delhi, 1857. Dalrymple is one of those historians who has pulled off that rare feat: writing works of scholarly seriousness while retaining the air of an engaging storyteller, and attracting a large popular audience while doing so.

I'd have loved the chance to talk to him about the book - particularly, about his extensive use of a hitherto-unknown, vast archive of primary source material about the "Indian Mutiny" of 1857, written mostly in Persian and Urdu and which lay in the Indian National Archives, largely untouched, for decades. I would also have liked to hear his thoughts on the presence of British women in India (one of my own research specialties). But the lecture hall was packed out, so I didn't get the opportunity - and he was whisked away to a reception afterwards. Still, since it's now a fairly rare occurrence for me to come into contact with people like this, I was pretty satisfied with my lot.

Grass Roots Farm

Yesterday, we had an excursion north of the city to Grass Roots Farm. A.'s family have known the farmer who runs the place for many years, as he also operates a well-known dog kennel and obedience training programme there. In the past few years, however, they have branched out into a new venture - humanely-reared, free-range meat produced from heritage-breed animals.

They started with chickens and turkeys, and have done quite well with that. They have since expanded to ducks and geese, and more recently pigs. We've bought their chickens and eggs before, but yesterday we picked up a selection hamper from them which also included some of their pork (they raise Berkshire and Tamworth pigs). So we now have pork chops, ham steaks, bacon and sausages to try out, in addition to more nice chickens for roasting. Over the next year, they plan to rear beef cattle and sheep as well; we are seriously considering getting together with a couple of friends and family members, and buying half a cow for the freezer.

Of course, it costs more to buy your meat this way than to get it at the grocery store. But I have been wanting to eat more locally-produced meat. That way, you are not only supporting a local farmer, but you can be assured that the animals you consume are being humanely raised, outside the factory-farm system. The weather still being wintry at the moment, we didn't see too many animals out and about yesterday on the farm. There were a few cattle down in one of the far pastures, and a large flock of plump, tasty-looking ducks (sorry JT) in one of the nearby sheds. But next time we go back, later in the spring, there will definitely be more to see.

Ballgown for a Song

This evening, one of the fancy dress shops downtown had a special three-hour blowout sale. Mindful that we'll be attending the Fleet and Garrison Ball again this year, I went down to the shop after work in the hope of finding a fabulous new frock at a bargain price. And I did!

I found this very classic black satin gown with a crystal beaded neckline (front and back). It needs a few alterations in the shoulders, waist and hem, but that will be quite easy to sort out. And I certainly don't mind doing it, when I'm saving 90%. Yes, that's right. The sticker price on this dress was $289, but I got it for a mere $29. WOOT!

More Review Books

Arrived home on Monday from a fun long weekend in Montreal with J., to the news that I've snagged another book for review, from LibraryThing. Yay! This one is called Weaving a Way Home: A Personal Journey Exploring Place and Story by Leslie Van Gelder. Time will tell whether it will be quite profound or a pile of touchy-feely rubbish. The jacket blurb suggests a meld of travel narrative and memoir:

Weaving a Way Home is an inquiry into the complex relationship between people, place, and story. In our memories and connections to a place, we are given one of the few opportunities to have deep relationships with place---relationships that cannot be described in words. Place can embody powerful emotions for us, and Leslie Van Gelder argues that we ourselves are places---geographical points possessing unique perspectives---that can feel displaced, replaced, or immovable. While the places of the external world can be accessed through maps and a good GPS system, our emotional landscapes are best reached through the sharing of stories.

In the interim, though, I guess I better get cracking on the review for my first book.

Avant Got A Clue

Went to see Happy Days by the Nobel laureate Samuel Beckett at Neptune last night. W. came along with me. I'd been quite looking forward to this play...until I remembered that Beckett's stuff is weird as all hell. Last night's play was no exception. The main character spends the entire first act buried up to her waist in a giant pile of dirt - and the second act, buried up to her neck. Seriously. Forty-five minutes of just this woman's head on stage.

It was pretty damn odd, for sure - but not as awful as I feared it might be. Unlike many in the audience (the Neptune Studio was noticeably half-deserted after the intermission) I stuck it out till the end. Let's just call it a "challenging" piece of theatre. Luckily W. and I had fortified ourselves at Stonehaven beforehand, with cheesecake and about a gallon of coffee!