New Year’s resolutions are like Jimmy Choo on a goldfish – pretty, but damn useless. After all, those spontaneous I’ll-be-a-better human, get-off-my-ass-and-exercise suggestions we promise our self-righteous selves at the stroke of midnight aren’t dogma, it’s the booze talking – and you know it.
Given my prior losses on the resolution battlefield, I found the best way to make a promise AND stick to it was to find a greater good to strive for, a purpose, a better, more meaningful goal than skinny jeans and Spanx bonfires.
Huh? When the hell did she go all Peace, Love & Gandhi on us?
Fear not, I’m still here, wit-proficient as always, however, this year, instead of making resolutions, I made a change – it began in August.
In a space-saving attempt, I’ll link the back story here, but sufficed to say my yearly physical was crap. Did I wallow? Did I cry? Did I Hoover-Up a sleeve of Thin Mints and tequila chaser? Hell yes, dammit, all three; no guilt, no shame and no plans to do it again anytime soon. (Sweet Christ, my liver was a mint-marinated brisket.) Then I took a hard look at the ass-shelf of excuses I’d built my stellar physique on, and decided to find my motivation.
Cancer. Yep, that’ll motivate like a mother.
Not me, not this time, my go round was years ago and Stage One – carved out, nuked and sent packing. See ya’ sucker; I’m blessed, but too many wrestle this insidious monster daily – their only goal, survival. Some win, some lose, and some wait in that murky limbo between scans and cell counts praying for the margin all-clear. (FYI – limbo sucks.)
I’m not sure why it took me so long to find the connection, I’m usually pretty quick. (Except in math – math sucks the life out of creatives.) One day I woke up, dragged myself to the gym and saw a sign for the annual American Cancer Society triathlon and…. BOOM! I’m an exercise-training-healthy-eating-annoying-the-hell-out-of-my-friends-and-family-BEAST! It took a swift kick to the head from steel-toe reality, but seeing a way my efforts could not only benefit my health, but the health of the cancer community was all the motivation I needed.
And now, I’m addicted. Squats are my crack. (Yeah, I know how it sounds, but I love imagery.)
A few, slow-paced 5Ks, a dabble of cycling…confession: I run like a newborn penguin and swim like a blind cat, but it’s a start. My trainer has the patience of a saint. I give him dating advice, (the poor boy needs to get…a loving girlfriend), and in turn he teaches me how to exercise with less profanity. It’s a big stretch for me.
Which leads in to my latest endeavor.
Now, you may have heard; I’m an Outlander fan. (No, really Kath? I thought your ‘No Kilt, No Love’ t-shirt was a political statement favoring Scottish independence?) Like so many of her devoted fans, Diana Gabaldon’s books found their way into my hands and heart at a tremendously difficult time. My son, Brendan, now 14, was born three months early and given less than a 20% shot at living through his first night. Passing the endless months of worry that followed proved shear hell. But the story has a happy ending; Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager later, Brendan came home, happy, healthy and wreaking havoc like all boys should. (Here’s more on that if you’re interested.)
Like a lot of OutFanders, I was skeptical when the STARZ network announced plans to adapt the books into a series, but I’m so glad I tuned in – they’ve done a beautiful job, and as fate would have it, my longtime love of all things Gabaldon recently collided with my newfound sweat fetish in a perfect, albeit amusing way – a truly Twitter way.
Ah, Twitter, where 140 characters grants interaction to all, even to those who scream psych eval. Who knew a simple retweet from Sam Heughan could result in cyber chaos?
Um, well, apparently everyone – except me.
You see, Sam has a….hmm how to say it tactfully…enthusiastic Twitter following, and together with a super group of gents at Bear Strength Clothing he’s teaming up to fight leukemia and lymphoma through the My Peak Challenge initiative – a great cause to get healthy for. Hubby and I signed up yesterday. (I had to promise him…err…birthday and anniversary-only type things.) Our goal is a mini-triathlon; although we’d settle for spin class followed by a sushi date and shared ibuprofen.
So, silly, naive me tweeted Sam a picture of my latest elliptical peak in prep for the challenge – to which he graciously retweeted. Thanks Sam, always nice to be recognized, the entire Outlander cast, crew and especially Herself are lovely in that regard. However, that one, simple, insignificant picture lead to, shall we say, an avalanche of Sam lovers – a Samalanche of comments too entertaining not to share. I’m telling you, if crazy were a grain of sand – these people own beach front property.
Actual Tweets From Complete Strangers & My Replies
“OMG – Sam tweeted you! So hot. Was it good for you? <winky face>”
“It’d be better if he drove swim carpool – that’s my hot.”
“Who needs exercise – I get warm and sweaty looking at him. <drool face>”
“It’s a hot flash. Get a bib and some pride.”
“Check out this Sam pic!”
“Sweet Christ, my eyes! Does your mother know you tweet this crap?”
“I hear he’s dating…<adult only emogi>”
“I hear speculum and speculate both end in ugly smear #watchit.”
“I want to bottle his sweat and roll in it.”
“#saneisthenewblack #onesizefitsall #tryiton”
The moral of today’s post; life is short – live it to the fullest. Give time to your health, give strength to those who need it most, and for the love of God, give Twitter a rest. If you can’t say it to your grandma – don’t say it to the world. #TheInternetNeverForgets