Dinkventures in Weekend Morning Techno-surgery - A morning of modern domestic bliss, ensuing shortly upon return from a brief shopping trip and a long morning of sipped coffee and admirable views: I stood in the kitchen, food processor eviscerating every little scrap of cabbage/celery/onion/finger that deigned to stare too long in its direction. While I tidied the carnage into a little comestible mound (perched atop - I am a DINK after all - ground flax seed, walnuts, and a little tvp), I idly tapped at G+ and gchat on my phone.
Occasionally, if nothing were afoot online, I switched to my tablet and breezed through a few pages of The Beautiful and the Damned chuckling softly at the often desultory depictions of minor "intellectual" elites of the Jazz Era, just loudly enough that Andrew would glance up intensely and ask (with his eyebrows) what he may have done to amuse me so much now.
Accompanying the smart phone and tablet on the kitchen island were Andrew's devices. They lay mostly inert, although the droid chirped out an occasional "DROID" just to remind us that it was still very much alive and quite useful. His tablet was tucked away in bed in its little case, just north of the bluetooth keyboard Mr. (W)right uses with it and which I briefly had attempted to use with mine before deciding I'd rather read my book earlier that morning.
The bigger boys were in dining area. Little distracted by our smaller sundries, they were collectively engaging in a very intense operation called Deep Dell REBOOT, or Andrew's epic voyage through many how-to videos and trials and errors in the quest to make my lovely little ultrabook be a little more ultra and a lot less pretty paperweight with a fun error screen. He had instructions on one computer, a back up drive whirring on the next, and marginal smidgens on progress on the afflicted Dell. Before any of this could begin, he had to tighten some bolts on the table to keep it from making the poor computers seasick. This necessitated various clearings and alterations that have left the living room steps closer to a state of finality! Wood gluing of the chairs aside, I believe we now have a workable dining room, except of course that all table space has been buried in electronics at this point.
Like the mother outside an operating room, my soul yearned for a progress update. Yet, I knew well to stay far clear of the tense jungle of chargers and brow-sweat in the dining room. I had barely survived the few excursions to the other side of of the island, so riddled was the area with cords and blinking smart-devices! As the hours grew longer, my flits between phone and Fitzgerald were punctuated with bursts of ad-hoc domesticity: laundry was unloaded, surfaces were saturated in water and vinegar (all the better to lick them later with a little bit of salt!), trash was taken out, and beds were made.
All the while, the computers whirred on in plaintive concentration. I lingered upstairs, noting all the little "funny differences" between how I do things and how my husband does things. We may have known each other for many years prior to the nuptials, but did we ever know that Andrew closes the garage door from within his car, while I have always closed it from the button by the door? Did we know that I fold the edges of towels and loop them on the rack from above, while he kerchiefs them and reams them from underneath? Is is funny that I never seem to take the plastic coating off of various devices when such coating is not obstructing its use?
Briefly, my mind queried if the novelty of these different approaches to hanging towels and buttering bread (or, in my case, avocadoing bread) would pass from noted quirk to simmering vexation someday. Would my habit of turning off the study light (always mysteriously on again whenever I pass by) evolve into passive aggressive grumbles, or merely a habit never thought on but perpetually repeated; something I'd never notice until we were separated and the light no longer needed turning. The thought lingered like the redolence of lilac on a clement spring evening before fading (perhaps filtered out by the air purifier in the bedroom).
Hours turned to hours-and-a-halfses into slightly longer times, and Andrew announced he did not think he could, after all, solve the mystery of the unbootable ultrabook. Even while he said this, he shuffled his chair from computer to computer, feverishly typing on all present keyboards like Mozart doing party tricks. Just minutes beyond this declaration of defeat, success... We don't exactly know why or what happened, but the computer worked, rebooted, and worked again. Some questions in life need never be answered.
Looking at the time, he asked if the movie were at 2 and pondered the scheduled ride he had intended for this morning slot... When I said the movie could be forestalled, he elected for lunch instead.
I ate a yam and rushed to my computer. Which computer?!? An embarrassment of riches almost paralyzing in its plurality. Mr. (W)right had handily retrieved his and was already back to his byzantian training calendar (which needs more pruning and grooming than your average orchid), when I opted to close the HP and reunite with the ultrabook. Oh great wonderful full-screened internet access, how I adore you. Not as much as I adore my handsome husband, but love is honeyed with a little distance. Now we click clack away, back to each other but hearts very much set apace to the other's.
All is well in the Wright family home. DINKS remain DINKS. the computers blink and whir, the internet functions... and neither of us has yet to garrote him/herself on any of the myriad power cords strewing the ground festively!
(W)right-decorating and the Wagon Wheel Coffee Table - In which we either take one step back from DINKydom decorating rule, and in which Mr. (W)right is definitively banned from prior jokes about how "the study is [his]" because "the rest of the house is [mine]" (as if this were not belied by the cycling paraphernalia and drill bits on the table, the small command center on the kitchen island, the airhorn from an old semi chilling in the living room, the briefcase and coat on the couch, and/or the small chunk of mountain dirt rock garden growing in the shower).
Andrew: (stepping off his trainer after a grueling indoor workout), I know, I bet I look so sexy right now.
Adella: (having recently returned from hiding upstairs with one of her many devices to watch the Daily Show somewhere other than an airplane hanger). Well... it's complicated. Parts of this are really working for me... and parts of it...
Andrew: it's impossible to not look like a dweeb on a trainer.
Adella: Well, the important thing is do you feel sexy.
Andrew: I feel sweaty and water-logged.
Adella: That's not very sexy sounding. Steamy would have been.
Andrew: So... I was thinking I'd leave the bike up here to the side.
Adella: (scrunchy lemon pucker face of doom... passes and air squeaks out like the screeching bellows of a bandoneon in ill repair) ... for the weekend? Or ...
Andrew: (flashing warning lights triggering in Andrew's head - Danger, danger Will Robinson... marriage really will emasculate a man and cut his ambitions dead in the water while he langours on the couch in epicine ineffectuality) ... well, until I take it outside again.
Adella: (blinks quickly as if perhaps a rapacious game of personal peek-a-boo with the object of discussion will make it disappear and render further discussion moot). Um, well... not the cardboard though right? Because, I mean, the bike is one thing... it's just... well, it's as living room. It's supposed to be livable.
Andrew: (masculine Y/N binary triggered and the bar for Y not having been reach, but with a slight hint of ruffled exasperation) I'll just put it downstairs.
Adella: (feminine collaborative many-shades of red and five thousand more of emotion programming activated) No, no, we could well, won't you need to use the trainer again tomorrow. So you shouldn't take it down yet!
Andrew: If the weather is bad, then after the gym I'd probably use it for a half hour (looking increasingly annoyed to still be discussing the matter when training hours and heart rate data could be logged on the four different tracking sites as we speak!!!). I'll just take it down.
Adella: Well... where would you put it?
Andrew: (blinking with incomprehension and wishing to refer to prior mentions of "to the side" with that airhorn in the corner)
Adella: In front of the window? I don't know. I like the view. Maybe um, if we moved the chair to the other side and I guess there's room. We could try it out for a while and see.
Andrew: (confused as Y/N binary switch flickers back and forth so quickly that he may be on the verge of a seizure). Um. Ok.
Adella: (moves chair). Let's try it.
Andrew: (does a lot of moving of things).
Adella and Andrew: (step back and leave the newly placed trainer in its spot)
Adella: Ok, that could work.
Andrew: So you like it there?
Adella: I wouldn't say like..., it's not really what I'd like in my ideal living room, but this is our space. It's not supposed to be either of our eidetic spaces. I want something that works for both of us. I do have several decorative socks hanging from various walls, after all. The cardboard, however, could really be replaced...
So, yes, through the miracle of practicing our darned wedding vows and only a few sessions of KUMBAYA singing and/or wishing we drank so we could go mull over a beer and talk about how the ol' ball and chain is holding us back blah blah blah, we have a rather dapper little decorative piece of art in the corner of our living room now. I'm not sure that the bright ride of the bike really meshes with the color of the rest of the room (perhaps, we can paint it a nice neutral salmon or avocado).
So long as this is not the beginning of a bicycle invasion, I can't say I mind it horribly much. And it is a lot more entertaining of a conversation piece than your average Nordic Track, while being far more sensibly priced that an average hunk of sculpture. I'll have to get a little placard and title it "DAWN CHARGERS OF AZGAARD" and insist we found it at Allied Arts, and that the artist is an absolute genius.
As a self-diagnosed Highly Sensitive Introvert (nutshell interpretation, however you want to label it: I sense the world at higher volumes for better and worse, and usually for overstimulated headache when the higher volumes are already high by regular standards), I still intend to flee when the trainer is in use like a cat at the first plaintive strains of a vacuum cleaner. It's not horribly loud, exactly, but with the fan and the noise from the laptop and the vibrations in the house, it can be a bit much to sit in the adjacent couch and attempt to follow along on the laptop. Also, as an empathetic person, it's hard for me to relax when I'm watching somebody else work hard. My heart rate literally (yes, I do mean literally as in beat for beat) speeds up to match the anticipated pitter patter of those around me, much the same as my pulse and breathing realign to any music I hear.
But then again, while there are indeed some truly dorky aspects to the trainer use, I think my hubby can pull off steamy in his Captain America bib shorts covered with nothing atop beyond a heart rate monitor... I certainly shan't mind the occasional glimpse of him in warrior face, ever harder charging at his laptop and whatever intermittent beer ad pops up between segments of free tv). And well, I think charging dawn into Asgard is a very important piece, likely to go up significantly in value after Pieter Doneverarard dies in a welding incident attempting to create his final masterpiece.
It All Works Out in the End (or at least on Sunday afternoons) Sunday is the day when the (W)right household leaps into Mr. (W)right's training calendar with open arms, as opposed to fleeing from it with some mutterings about mud in the entry way and noise downstairs.
Alternately, Sunday is the day when this little gym bunny brings some arm candy to the gym for her little flirtation with self-sinewing. Of course, the course of true Wright workout never did run smooth... nor would it ever be an Andrew Wright workout with some degree of complexity. Just go to the gym and do some weights? Bah. Just a little run? Yawn! No, instead let's park downtown, do a run to the park, run back to the car, walk to the Y, do the strength training, drive home, eat something, and then send Andrew off to cycle up some crazy hills for another hour or so.
This is, indeed, what we did. We came back from brunch and our weekly DINKY sofa shopping (because, some people like shoes, and some like jewelry, but nothing says "you've arrived, so sit down a spell" like a nice sofa or ten), ran down and back on the South Bay trial, went to the YMCA, came home and then sent Andrew off to continue being insane.
Every once in a while, my dance teacher will have to postpone a lesson because his dog, Sweet Pea, ran off. She is a hardy little beagle (some call her ugly, but I say her bald patch and lean face gives her a sexy tomboy sass that renders her ideal for Paris Vogue), with a mild death wish and an impressive aerobic capacity. Sometimes she's there and the next second she has vanished to go hunting after cars.
I feel like the minute my Saucony's hit the trail, the spirit of Sweet Pea is upon me. At least whenever I'm running with Andrew. I don't know exactly what happens, but I find myself baying at trees, chasing after deer, and - more often - wandering off and throwing monkey wrenches at his perfectly dialed (and programmed) work outs.
In fairness, I allowed the squeaks and inscrutable squawks of his GPS/heart-rate/training watch to police my pace as well as his... until I needed the to avail myself of the ladies room down in the park. He had mentioned it would be ok for me to go on ahead because he'd know where to find me - the bathroom (when in doubt, I have probably found one of these, really). The problem was that there are three bathrooms in "the park." I chose the middle one. He expected me to take the first one. I was uncertain, after not being able to find him waiting for me, if he hadn't thought I meant the far one. Somehow we managed to reconnect after I ran halfway to Fairhaven and back, and after he finally called into the first bathroom and was met with only sad Echo still moaning about some jerk named Narcissus. Since I had no keys, phone, or ... anything... it was fortunate that we were both savvy enough to continue on the predestined track and that we ran back into each other midway between the second and third bathroom.
Our weights went more smoothly, possibly because my beagle-self had gone to nap in the corner, or (more likely) because we do not do the same weights in the first place. I prefer the modern girly machines. Andrew prefers to hang out in the musky free weight section, where burly men apparently (and I can only judge from the sounds exuding from that section) are throwing irons on the ground and giving birth to very large babies without the aid of a midwife.
I stuck mostly to my side, although a few of the leg apparati border on the grunting manlandia section and sometimes Mr. (W)right and I crossed paths if not irons. Having been more focused on a full upper body workout for three months now, I'm quite happy with the results. I've always had a little bit of definition in my delts - the "dancer muscles" as Andrew called them, although in his case "dancer" always means "ballet dancer" - and some bicep, but they are particularly cut these days. I might just catch myself staring admiringly at an inadvertently flexed arm ... possibly in public spaces. Possibly while others are watching. Possibly while I am singing The Alphabet Song to myself at full volume.
So, perhaps, in a few more months I really will be going into labor and throwing irons on the ground in a onesie wrestling suit. I have very well considered getting gloves (weight lifting gloves, not the usual evening kind I consider before realizing I need to wash my hands too often to make these the slightest bit practical).
As a further aside, I am coming to appreciate why those yoga pants are this millenium's answer to mom-jeans. I make no comment on whether my pink and gray capri workout pants are "flattering" (they aren't in actuality, but they do suggest a certain sort of attractive fitness), but for all that is holy in this world, THEY FIT. Which is far more than I can say for virtually any other pair of pants on sale today. I am again down to about two pairs of pants that willingly stay on my body. While I've tried occasionally to look for replacements, I would apparently need to take five inches from my inseam and attach it to my circumference to qualify for any pair under designer prices.
After a combination of wedding stress and going off a medication that apparently caused some hydro-padding (all flushed away within a few days of going off... those were sure "fun" days), I've re-thrown the weight-gain gauntlet for myself at a pace of 1 pound a week until I'm back into some strata of "healthy weight"... no, thank you all now, but I don't need additional advice on what/when/how to eat. My biggest compulsion and strength (aside from spewing words onto a screen) is a compulsive amount of research combined with a fair degree of critical analysis, so anything you believe or have read or have heard, I probably have too and already have my own opinions about. I will say I think I may have hit my weight target this week, although what with random water fluctuations and the protean quality of such "measurable" physical qualities as "weight" it is always hard to say anything definitive. Weight, like Shroedinger's poor little cat, may be altered by its measurement. I may actually be losing or gaining many pounds just as a result of stepping on the scale. I wouldn't be surprised. But I am married now, and I do hear that causes people to gain weight, so I figure I'm on a good trajectory anyways.
Perhaps at the end of all this there will be pants at, say, Target or Fred Meyer's that even hint at being "my size" (most likely still too short, but actually requiring the buttons be undone to don would be a good start). Even if pants theoretically fit, though, there will still be the vagaries of sizing irregularities and arcane numerical codifications. Workout pants come in small-medium-large. They have very little variation to go awry. They more or less adjust to "fit" and that's that. So, yoga pants, it is!
At any rate, our shenanigans with training were a good parallel activity for Sunday and left us in an appropriately parallel stupor for Sunday evening. There's nothing quite like collapsing on top of your significant other and moaning about how sore you both are... now that's real romance!
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