Rise and Ride: Getting There is Half the Fun!

Waking up at 6 a.m. to burn 600 calories on a stationary bike is a hill you should not want to climb.

You know that feeling you have when it’s about 9 pm on a Sunday night and you feel fantastic. You’re relaxed from a stress-free weekend and have as much positive energy as a kid on his way to an undiscovered playground. Your mind is whirring at a steady pace but because it’s late, you make big plans for tomorrow instead of tonight.

While getting ready for bed, you and all your energy together decide to up the wattage and wake-up for the 6:30 a.m. hour-long spin class the next morning. You commit to it. There is nothing that could possibly stop you from going to that class, because you feel so damn good right now. You’re cruising comfortably and you go to sleep motivated and with a smile on your face because you are the best.

The next morning, although you were expecting it, the six a.m. mountain comes around too fast and is significantly more daunting now that it’s before you. The 8-hour flat course up to this point went by so fast it’s like you didn’t even rest. And what the hell happened to all that energy you had last night? Is it possible that sleeping actually expends energy instead of refreshing your supply? Your brain has no capacity to contemplate this paradox and so you hit the snooze button again, momentarily obscuring the view of the mountain.

Six fifteen and your mind is gearing up all possible excuses not to go to this class, to justify closing your eyes and succumbing to your 600 thread count, goose down comforter. But your mind misses a gear and somehow your guilt makes a pass on the right and you’re in the bathroom by six eighteen. Has it always been this cold in here? Freezing in your sports bra and panties you brush your teeth, staring at your haggard face in the mirror. Is this what being healthy looks like, you ask yourself. Your brain grunts, turns over and doesn’t respond.

But your triumph over getting out of bed gives you confidence. You begin to relax a bit, enjoying the momentum behind you. Knowing you’re ahead, you ease up a little and let your mind’s RPMs slowly decrease. Although dressed, all of a sudden you’re back underneath the covers with your eyes closed and your mind blank. Just resting. Just for a second.

Six-twenty-four and the horns and cheers of the alarm go off again jolting you back into the race. You muster all of your energy. Although you’ve done this climb before, you always severely underestimate the effort required. The air feels colder now than it did six minutes ago. Each second that passes becomes more and more agonizing. Painstakingly you push the right leg out of the covers and down to the floor, followed by the left, up then down, trying desperately to keep your movements under control. The process is so demanding that it feels like you’re going in slow motion. Almost there, you throw everything you’ve got into it, rip the covers off your body, and grunt out the front door.

Once out in the fresh air and past the point of no return, you sprint the entire route and arrive at the gym at only + 3 minutes.

You enter the already sweaty room, grab a towel and fall into line at the back of group in an effort to hide your tardiness. Through the mirrored front wall you catch the group’s disapproving glances but you don’t care because you had a solid performance in the earlier stages of this race and are proud of your comeback.

But however smug you are, you can’t help noticing that the pedals on each bike in the room are already turning in a circular motion, at least 100 RPM’s. Even your worn-out mind notices that something is not right here. You force your eyes and mind to finally work together and take a good look around the class.

That’s right – the class is jam packed full of superhuman early bird pedal machines, now increasing speed to a minimum of 110 RPMS. You, it seems, will be left behind at 0 RPM’s this particular morning.

Defeated, you exit the class, head bowed in shame and slowly head toward the main gym.

A clock catches your eye on the back wall of the gym and suddenly a finish line materializes itself in your mind. Now very alert, you sprint towards that finish line, significantly faster than your original route.

You cross that finish line into your apartment at exactly 6:47. Given the time it would have taken you to shower and get ready had you actually participated in the class, you justify that you would be late for work regardless. You throw your gear to the ground, reset your alarm for 7:45 and settle in for your recovery.

Race Time: 47 minutes (Personal Best).
Distance: 0.6 kms
Calories Burned: 25 of 600.
Current Status: Alive, at least until tomorrow’s race.

Tags: bicycle, bicycling, bike, course, cycling, early morning, exercise, exercise class, hills, pedal, race, RPM, spin class, spinning, wake up, workout

Air Travel: What Not To Do at 30,000 Feet

It’s a given that at some point during your business career you will need to get on a airplane, fasten your seatbelt, and fly through the air at 600 mph. Prior to heading to the airport, everyone will be wishing you a good flight and you’ll be hoping the same.

But people don’t hate bad flights. It gives you something to talk about when you come through the arrivals gate and you are bombarded with the the obligatory “How was the flight?” You just can’t wait to say “Oh man, you wouldn’t believe this one…”. Most of the time you can’t even wait for the arrivals gate. The second the seatbelt sign is off and the plane is on the ground, your blackberry is booted up and you’re madly typing “OMFG. U won’t blieve this flight!! LMFAO , this guy…”

The following tips will help to ensure a safe and comfortable flight and hopefully help you avoid you being “that guy”.

Unacceptable Airplane Actions (DON’T):

• Understand that traveling from the west coast to London, England is a long flight. However, this does not mean that you should let your three feet of greasy black hair down and comb it out into the shared aisle space for 45 minutes. If you must do this, please at least leave your socks on to cover your overgrown gremlin toenails

• If the person in the aisle seat is female and working on her laptop, and you are an older male of festively plump proportions sitting in the inside seat beside her, it is not appropriate to “save her the effort” of getting up by attempting to “squeeze by” her in order to go to the washroom. Not only is this not physically possible, but even if you went ass first to avoid making it “awkward”, the woman is still throwing up in her mouth.

• Although it is important to encourage reading to children, reading a novel out loud to your child on a red-eye flight is not acceptable. Try melatonin or on of those child-size bottles of scotch instead.

• Avoid Mexican food before taking flight. Contrary to popular belief, pressurized cabins do NOT mask the scent of a bad burrito to the person sharing your armrest, and the oxygen masks will NOT fall no matter how much that person begs the flight attendant for one.

• Trenchcoats. Seriously. Just leave them at home.

• Just because the person beside you had to take their iPod off for landing doesn’t mean they want to talk to you for the 45 minute descent and taxi to the door.

Acceptable Airplane Actions (DO):

• If there is severe turbulence and everyone is screaming, and for some reason you’re not scared enough to be white-knuckled to the armrests, please assume the prayer position and make sure to pray for all the people around you, not just your selfish self.

• If no food is offered on the flight, not even a bag of measly pretzels, and you pull out a bag of delicious smelling Peanut M&Ms or similar snack, do offer the person beside you some. Note: this does not mean that said person is obligated to talk to you at all during the flight. This is a one-sided kind gesture and karma will get your back later. Just be patient.

• Most likely during a red-eye or longer flight you will become drowsy and nod off for awhile. Consider a breath mint, or perhaps some gum, prior to your sleepy head tilting itself sideways at the perfect angle to direct your heavy dragon breath on the person beside you. Don’t worry about choking on the mint. The person beside you will be so grateful of your delightful breath, that they will no doubt immediately apply the Heimlich maneuver and save your life.

• Do watch the safety video making sure to read the English subtitles, especially if flying a foreign airline where they attempt to incorporate humor into the video. “Yes, Foreign Flight Air, I did watch the safety video! It showed a guy smiling and lighting a fire in the washroom garbage can. There were lights, fireworks, and smiley faces. Of course I thought it was acceptable, if not encouraged, to smoke on the plane!”

Share your best flight story in the comments. You know you have one just waiting to be re-told..

Tags: air, airplane, airport, business travel, flight, flying, humor, humour, passenger, plane, red-eye, travel

Thigh High Stockings and Why They Should Be Avoided at Work

Nylons, panty hose, tights, stockings.. whatever you want to call them.. are a staple in any young female professional’s wardrobe. As you browse the nylon aisle at the drugstore, you will come across many different types. Reinforced panty, reinforced toe, ankle socks, fishnets, and my (formerly) personal favourite: thigh high.

These beauties have an adhesive rubber-like material that sticks to your legs, holding the stocking just at your thigh, allowing you to avoid the ancient and uncomfortable garter belt. These nylons are amazing for the following reasons:

1. They are sexy. From the lacy tops right down to the silky toes. Most importantly, you can wear them under a power suit and strut around the office with extra confidence, because while everyone assumes you’re wearing granny panty nylons all the way up past your bellybutton, you’re actually wearing the stuff dreamed up for hot nights.
2. You will never get runs in your stockings from going to the bathroom because you don’t need to pull them down.
3. There are not as constricting as regular tights. You can actually breathe and move in these things, relatively comfortably.

However, despite all the great reasons for wearing these sultry stockings, there is also reason to avoid them:

This reason will come about one day while you’re walking to work in the middle of downtown and one of the “sticky” tops of the nylons will no longer be plastered to the top of your thigh. Slowly but surely that nylon will slip down and you will end up with a crumpled mess on top of your new Nine West pumps. And you can’t just nonchalantly pull it up because doing so in a pencil skirt would require hiking up the skirt past your waist and exposing your pasty derriere to the entire street.

It’s not just the fact that it’s in a crumpled mess around your ankle, the fact is that because you’re wearing something sexy, it’s unlikely to be skin colour and blend in with anything. It’s likely some form of black or “night shade”. And what makes this worse is the fact that you know both of them didn’t come down.. just the right leg.. so it makes it really difficult to convince passerby’s that you’re simply bringing back 80′s workout gear.

Feeling the nylon slip down your leg will force you to run into the nearest Starbucks, praying that there is a public washroom. The branch you enter into is small, barely fitting the line-up of people extending right to the door. Cutting through the crowd and getting several angry looks from pre-coffee caffeine addicts in line, you make it to the washroom only to discover, of course, that you need to obtain the key from the front.

Half limping in an effort to keep the nylon from dragging, you grab the key from the front and make it into the one-stall washroom, with only a few confused (intrigued?) looks. You overlook the fact that you are about 2 blocks from your office and it is likely that several of your co-workers were in the line and saw you and your disheveled nylon. If you didn’t make eye contact, you don’t believe they saw you either.

You yank the nylon back up only to feel the slow slipping of the rubbery elastic band again slipping down your thigh. Because you don’t carry a garter belt in your purse for such occasions, at this point your problem solving abilities are seriously challenged. Out of nowhere, your brain comes through by remembering all those times throughout summer where your sweaty bottom stuck to something plastic. You slam your hand under the tap and wet the inside of the rubber piece of the nylon. It sticks! Success!

You shamelessly exit the washroom and proceed to confidently continue the walk to work. No big deal. Just another morning in the life. Waiting in line at the elevator at your office, the now familiar slipping feeling returns. Grasping the side of your leg like you’ve been stabbed, you apply pressure to your skirt, in a desperate attempt to keep the stocking up, at least until you get to your desk.  Hobbling along, hand on thigh, you make it to your desk and assess the situation. You have three options:

1. Don’t get up all day. Not for meetings, not for lunch, not for coffee, not for the several bathroom breaks required after the coffee.
2. Find some sort of adhesive. Tape? A stapler?
3. Rip off the nylons, throw them in the garbage, bare-leg it (proudly) until your coffee break, then run downstairs to the drugstore like a maniac and buy a normal pair of nylons that hug your waist, not your thighs.

Option #3 wins and the rest of day goes on as normal, albeit not as sexy.

Has this happened to you? Has anyone come across a thigh high stocking that actually stuck for multiple wears? Please share!

Tags: business attire, businesswoman, humor, humour, nylons, pantyhose, stockings, tights, women in business, young female professional, young professional

Maybe She’s Born With It, Maybe It’s Maybelline: The Stress of Makeup-Less Business

Have you ever come across a time when it’s 6:30 a.m. and you’re in a hotel room in Silicon Valley, California, the brand new suit you bought for the big annual meeting hanging in the closet, and you reach into your makeup bag to complete the masterpiece that is your face by applying the oh-so-necessary mascara, only to find the key item missing?

Step back about 15 hours. You’re packing a small overnight bag so you don’t have to check it for the flight. You’re trying your best to fit everything into that pathetic Ziploc bag and you curse the facial product industry for making everything just slightly over 100mL. Because you have a bit of traveling to do, you leave putting your makeup on for last as to get the freshest face for the longest time possible. Dancing along to Lady Gaga on your iPod, you coat your eyes beautifully with a new Revlon Grow Luscious, grab your bag and book it out the door.

Fast-forward about 7 hours. You’re reached your hotel and check in for the night. Looking forward to a good sleep in a fairly decent bed, you thoroughly wash your face, making sure to cleanse, tone, and finally apply a solid night cream.

Eight hours later, you awake suddenly to the sharp RING RING RINGGG of the wake-up call. But you’re not fazed. You’re confident because you were asked to come to this important meeting, you have a fantastic new suit that fits perfectly, and you straightened your hair the night before and it still looks good.

Now return to 6:30 a.m: I am in the middle of nowhere, just about to leave to an important meeting, and I am missing my mascara. Had I noticed this significant dilemma eight hours earlier, I would have left the all-day grime of travel and sweat on my face the night before and slept with my face pointing at the ceiling all night to avoid smudging!

Of course when traveling for business, odds are that you are traveling with a male colleague as opposed to female. The problem with this being that unless said male is a businessman by day, drag queen by night, he likely does not own mascara, let alone bring it on business trips. I rip open the blinds. Look left, then right, then directly ahead. No CVS, no Walgreens, no hookers with purses of which I would pay $1000 for a partially used mascara stick.

Since this Revlon is usually the absolute last (and most important) item I put on in the morning, I now only have 10 minutes since noticing its absence until we leave for the meeting.  Googlemap. There is nothing within miles. I contemplate my options: go to the lobby and ask the front desk if they have any? Break into someone’s room and hold them up with a mini bottle of shampoo and a Do Not Disturb sign folded into a sword?

In a last ditch effort, I attempt to fabricate mascara out of watered down eyeliner and try to paint my eyelashes with a liner brush.  Failure.  My previously relaxed body is bordering on nervous breakdown.  Tearing open my computer bag, I see a black Sharpie and get down to business.  After five minutes of frantic “drawing” of my eyelashes (apparently not the same as drawing on eyebrows), I realize it is useless. My eyelashes are now somewhat black, but just as frail and pitiful as if I had no makeup on at all.

Out the window I see my male boss heading to the rental car and looking for me. Utterly defeated and now stressed as ever, I head out while having one last depressing look in the mirror. Outside, I get in the passenger side of the car, avoiding eye contact. There is no comment, but his facial expression betrays that his mind is contemplating that I must have got severely wasted the night before, alone in my hotel room, which would explain the haggered look of my eyes, and the aura of complete stress emitting from my body.

The car starts and we head east towards the meeting. I flick on the radio: “Don’t hide yourself in regret, just love yourself and you’re set, baby, I was born this way. Thanks for the support Gaga, but I still look like shit.

Tags: business travel, business women, businesswoman, cleanser, eyelash, eyelashes, eyeliner, face, humor, humour, make-up, makeup, mascara, women in business, young female professional

How to Contract Strep Throat

First off, you do not contract strep throat. Streptococcal bacteria contract you. And it’s not like one of those flimsy contracts you sign when you go go-karting that says you’re not going to sue if the kart flips over and snaps your arm in half.  It’s the kind of contract that 10 stern faced lawyers are standing above in black suits holding black leather brief cases staring down at you.  Meanwhile, you’ve been drugged by some spawn of pure evil into smearing your bloodstain signature onto the signature line at the bottom. You are binded to the contract and you cannot worm your way out of any loopholes, because there aren’t any. You, missy, are being screwed. And where bacteria are involved, screwing isn’t pleasant.

So last Wednesday I’m in the office as usual but am feeling a little fatigued, a little tired. My throat has been acting up all week but I’ve armed myself with enough Dayquil to severely paralyze several grown elephants.  But no matter how much gum I chew, my breath still smells like I ate a pile of manure. This sore throat just doesn’t feel right so being the doctor that I am, I can obviously diagnose my own symptoms and spend almost six billable hours on webmd.com. Verdict: Oh yeah. I have this.  But what should I do? I can’t tell anyone, because they’ll think I’m gross and contagious and won’t have lunch with me. So I’m popping Halls like happy candy and a few hours later the day is done.

Finally, I’m seated in the little white room at the clinic. I get swabbed. Tests results tomorrow. Here’s a prescription, just in case. Take if needed when the results are back.

Results tomorrow? I have strep now! I googled it and google doesn’t lie. Not to me anyway. I did a detailed analysis which considered multiple websites and opinions. My lymphs are puffing out my face, I have diarrhea breath, there are weird little white spots on my throat, and my tonsils are impregnated with demon babies. Ahh!

Friday comes. No results yet. I leave the office at 10 because even though I’m drinking cup of tea after cup of tea of sweet anti-oxidant filled greeness, smelling my breath rebounding from my mug is making me want to hurtle.

Saturday. Still no results. Call the clinic. Surprise. Closed Saturday. I spend a Friday night sweating profusely with a sandpaper throat unable to eat or even drink water.  It’s thirty degrees outside and I’m lying on the couch, blinds drawn, wallowing in a moist, uncomfortable 625 square foot prison. This is what I get for all the bad things I have done. God is punishing me. He must be. How else can this hell possibly be explained?

Saturday afternoon. I need the drugs. I don’t care about getting the results. I become a drug addict: sweaty, sore, feeble, moaning, drooling, ass-breath.  Give me the drugs! I stagger up the street to the big pharmacy like Frankestein looking for his frigid wife. Crumbled sweaty prescription in one hand, wallet filled with wonderful drug-buying money in the other.

The rest of the story is a blur of intervention.  My Mom, sensing my distress via text messages that didn’t require my broken voice, drops everything to come downtown and save me from this terrible place I’m in. The place of bacterial growth, painful swallowing, and overall discomfort. The great thing about Moms is that they love you even though you drool strep bacteria all over their pillows and blankets, roll around continuously moaning that you can’t eat, cough up stuff in their sink, sweat fever all over their sheets, and eat allof their chocolate ice cream and leave the empty box in the freezer.

3 Tips for Breaking the Contract with Strep Throat:

1) Leave work immediately after concluding from your online research you have strep throat. Strep throat is actually very contagious (although how I got it in the first place is still a mystery) and if anyone finds out it was you who spread it, you’ll no longer be a party favourite.

2) All the “home remedies” online are crap. Sure, psychologically you’ll feel like you’re doing something, but mixing honey and cayenne pepper is just not as effective as simply going to the doctor.

3) With prescribed anti-biotics, the chainsaw in your throat should go away within two to three days and you can happily get back to business.

Tags: antibiotics, bacteria, bad breath, business women, businesswoman, humor, humour, ill, lymph, office humor, prescription, sick, sore throat, strep throat, webmd

Cherries and the Danger of Too Much Fibre in the Workplace

Everyone loves a deal so when cherries were on sale at Safeway one evening during my weekly grocery trip, I bought a ridiculously large bag of them and saved $4.99.

The next morning, I decided to proactively wake up early and start working on one of my ongoing work projects from home. The project was relatively difficult and with everything 10 seconds worth of increasing frustration that go by, I crammed an additional cherry into my mouth. About 20 minutes later, a little full, but generally content, the entire bag of cherries is gone.

After finishing my savage cherry binge fest, I leave for work and at about 1 pm, I head out to meet with one of my clients at their office. Because the nature of my job is to spend a lot of time actually working from the client’s office, I arrive at their office  with my laptop. In this particular situation, due to the  small size of their office, the only spot they have for me to work is directly beside the main boss, in his office, basically at his desk.   I put my things down and start silently setting up my laptop. All of a sudden, as if out of complete nowhere, I hear a long and stretched out “roooooaaaarrr gurrrgglleee gurrlleee”. Stop.

“What the hell was that?” races through my mind. The sound does not repeat itself, so I begin working silently on my computer.

About half an hour later, I’m having a discussion with the client regarding the project, asking thoughtful questions, proposing elegant solutions, when again the sound returns but with even more force.  Now I’m kind of embarrassed, since the sound seems to be coming from my stomach. However, at least at this point it’s inside and not making any sudden movements… maybe I can pass off the wounded and dying seal sound as just being hungry… even though I just came back from lunch!

It is at this point that I’m thinking very literally, “Holy crap. I basically ate a crap-load of laxatives for breakfast and now I am in a foreign office and sitting beside someone I just met.” No one truly warns you about the laxative effect of fruit overconsumption. Sure, the sugar-free candy you buy at the drugstore has the warning. Other types of products at least hint at it by stating “4g of Fibre per serving!” But that little sticker on the fruit that says Mexico or California? I’ve looked since this incident and believe me, it does NOT warn you about the true dangers.

The most logical solution would be to excuse myself and let loose in the bathroom. But let’s put this office into context first: the bathroom. The ONLY bathroom.  Paper thin walls.. I mean, you can hear everything in that dump (literally). And it’s one of those toilets.. you know the kind… it’s like every time you go in there you feel the need to get down on your knees, fold your hands in front of your face and begin, “Dear God in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, if you do indeed exist, can you please, I mean really please, please, make this toilet flush. I’m not talking just swirling the water around for a minute or two like you’re casually mixing lemonade on a sunny day, I’m talking beat that water down those pipes and get it out of here along with everything else! Take the whole room, take the wall paper for Your sake!”

At this point, I’m debating if I should make a sudden exit to the bathroom or say I have a family emergency and drive to the nearest gas station. Seriously I’m floating in it. I’m sitting there, across from this dude, legs crossed, holding my breath, watching the clock, feigning work.

Finally I draw up enough courage and make an awkward beeline for the bathroom. Practically sweating, I turn the fan and tap on in an attempt to drown out any unladylike sounds. Dancing from toe to toe, I line the seat with scratchy cheap toilet paper and plunk myself down.

The rest of this story is history.. let’s just say that no one outside those thin walls ever said anything (like they would even if my fan/tap combo wasn’t loud enough), God had answered my prayers, and I will never fall for a deal on cherries again.

Tags: bathroom, bowel movement, business women, businesswoman, cherries, crap, fiber, fibre, humor, humour, laxative, office humor, toilet, washroom

The Wonders of the Japanese Onsen

For those of you who are not fluent in Japanese, Wikipedia informs us that an onsen is a Japanese natural hot spring bath. In English, this translates roughly to: Absolute heaven.

There are a few things you should know about an onsen before you go and pay your 1500 – 3000 yen (about $15 – 30) to soak luxuriously in the physical state God had originally intended.

• You will be naked. Ass-naked. Buck-naked. Your birthday suit. However you wanna call it, everything is hanging out for all to see. Although you will be segregated by sex, it’s still out there, so be prepared to strut your stuff.

• If you have a tattoo, you are considered a member of an organized criminal gang and will be kicked out without getting your money back. Note that it is possible, if you are very sneaky and your tattoo is small, to cover your tattoo with your hand or hand towel.

• We all know trimming yourself “down there” is not only very appealing to the opposite sex, but also facilitates in promoting good hygiene. However, at an onsen, you are a freak of nature and others frequenting the baths will wonder how you possibly stay warm in winter without a massive bearskin rug in your pants.

• You are given a hand towel to use as you please (generally as a wash cloth). Based on experience, this should be used in the sauna to sit on. In a very recent and ultimately disturbing experience, a quite large woman proceeded to plop her ass down right on the common towels lining the sauna benches. Upon getting up, a portion of the towel remained wedged in her ridiculously large behind. Now, it is amazing that we could even see this at all as it was partially blocked by a massive forest, however, it is obvious that you don’t want your stuff anywhere near that stuff, no matter how much they scrubbed beforehand. Note: you will be naked.  See below.

• You must lather yourself head-to-toe (including brushing your teeth) before you can enter the baths. Do not make shampoo Mohawks and spray your friend with the shower hose. Remember, you are naked, and old ladies will give you bad looks and probably hex you with voodoo magic.

• Lastly, an onsen is the best place on Earth. Not only are there multiple baths of luxury, waterfalls, cold baths, saunas, jets, and milky bubbly type magic water pools, you get to be naked and frolic in another world! A cultural experience not to be missed.

If you’re staying in Tokyo and not getting out to the other regions of Japan, I recommend the Onsen Monogatari in the Odaiba district of Tokyo with its indoor and outdoor baths, as well as massage, sand and rock treatments. Treat yourself!

Tags: bath, birthday suit, hot springs, humor, humour, japan, japanese, onsen, sauna, soak, tattoo, tokyo, towel, travel