The bar's that way...
You had a rough day that included some "feedback" from your boss. You finally got that proposal to put vending machines in the staff break room approved. You got in an epic argument with your significant other and, in a show of just how angry you are, have decided to sleep on your own lumpy couch. Your toddler is blowing snot bubbles. Bottom line is you need – no, you deserve – a drink. Don’t get me wrong; these are all fantastic reasons to imbibe. But I assure you nothing makes you feel like you have straight up earned your right to get liquored like a solid workout.
To be honest, I’ve only very recently learned this myself. This is because, up until only very recently, the idea of working out made me dig deep into the darkest depths of my excuse-making capabilities like my life depended on it, and the last time I actually did something that involved running or weights or a sport was waaaay before I could even reach the bar, let alone legally drink. For the longest time, I actually had the metabolism to back this aversion to athletic endeavors up. I was the kind of girl who would go shopping with my other skinny friends and say things like, “Whoa… these are all mediums? Everything here is going to be WAY too big on me. Aren’t there any double zeroes in this place?” super loudly while tossing my hair and reaching into my bag of McDonald’s.
But lately I’ve felt a little…soft. Not fat. Just…not thin. On one particularly harrowing day, I went to put on what I thought of as my “fat jeans,” and could barely get them over my thighs. I then broke the zipper clean off on the next pair I frantically tried to cram what I was increasingly viewing as “my huge ass” into. As I crumpled into a pathetic, blubbering mess on the floor, blowing snot bubbles of my own and reaching for my sweatpants, I knew. I could no longer shovel chicken wings and beer into my piehole at alarming speeds without consequences. And trust me. I panicked.
I wasn't exaggerating.
I feel the need to preface this whole story by putting something out there. My husband, Tim, is an athlete. And I don’t mean some jock who goes to the gym and does bicep curls while grunting in the mirror. He’s the kind of athlete who, on his first try, ran a 2:40 marathon and then went straight to the bar for a marathon of an entirely different sort. He came in second in his first 50-mile race and did it in less time than it takes most people to run 26.2. He can clean and jerk grown men and then be the last man standing in a knock-down, drag-out bar fight. At about 3% body fat, he’s legit.
Fortunately, he’s never imposed his lifestyle on me, especially given my passion for food and wine…and food. But it’s pretty tough to start feeling soft when the love of your life has nothing but 90-degree angles on his body. So, on a desperate whim, I decided to run.
On my first day in the gym, I ran one mile and I wanted to die. But I felt proud, mostly because I didn’t projectile vomit after. In fact, I felt like I still had something in me. When I called Tim to let him know the good news, he responded with an encouraging “Get the fuck out of here.”
His unique way of showing support aside, I vowed I would do it again… in a couple of days. I then showered, took extra care doing my hair and makeup, donned a super cute outfit and headed to my office. Feeling suddenly like Giselle Bundchen, all tight and ready to get the phone call letting me know when my Sports Illustrated photo shoot was scheduled, I sipped my ice cold generic Pinot Grigio and was overwhelmed by how incredible it tasted.
I didn’t think much of it, but, after a few days of walking like I’d just had a colonoscopy with a fire hose, I was ready to try this running thing again. And then again. And then the following week. I also started doing sets of pull-ups. And weighted squats. And bench presses. I mastered the plank, and felt no shame walking into my apartment and posing down my dogs WWE-style as they watched in embarrassed horror.
I still didn’t fit into my fat jeans. I didn’t really look any different. Aside from a newfound ability to take a full breath of air, I didn’t really feel any different either. But I couldn’t shake the strangest sense of satisfaction. And then it dawned on me. For the first time ever, I was actually earning my wine every night. For the first time ever, there was no guilt as I downed two pints of beer while furiously typing out blog posts. You better believe I deserved it after all that hard work I just put in at the gym.
And it went downhill (or uphill, I suppose) from there. I began running faster, harder. Grunting as I finished my third set of ten. Flexing unabashedly in the mirror. I also began truly believing that I was running for a cause. Some people run for Chrohn’s & Colitis. I was running for happy hour. Nay, for my liver! I was going to start accepting a whole new kind of sponsorship!
As in all great things in life, the law of diminishing returns eventually reared its ugly head. While I may have earned that post-workout glass or two, I’m not sure this new sense of entitlement was meant to be extended to another two glasses and a round of shots. I began to feel sluggish going into my runs. I couldn’t actually get through those two miles without breaking into a walk. My formerly productive writing frenzies were turning into meandering Facebook sessions and goddamn it I still wasn’t fitting into my fat jeans.
And so I landed on a middle ground with myself. Working out a few times a week didn’t mean also going on a “well-deserved” bender a few times a week. But it did mean I was able to find renewed appreciation for something that had become both work and a luxury I took for granted every night – and I am actually not referring to my husband here. I started to truly savor that first sip of wine that is poured while preparing dinner. It somehow just tasted better after a workout. And this realization allowed me to really think about what I was tasting and ponder why it was so delicious, or refreshing, or comforting. Maybe that beer was just a little bit colder today, or that Super Tuscan just a little bit more luxurious thanks to the extra $5 I spent on it. But the combination of sensations – of pride in what I had done, and passion for what I was doing – made me feel on top of the world.
Whatever your virtues and vices might be, have faith that the two can always be mingled with great results, and are far more closely related than you might think.
Now, if you don’t mind, I have some magnums of Chianti to lift…
Occasionally, we are serious. Or, well, we aren’t. But our blog can be. We understand our readers don’t necessarily always want to read about embarrassing and ridiculous things that happen to us on a daily basis. Sometimes they actually want to learn something…feel inspired or whatever. If you observed us in our professional lives, you might know that we probably aren’t the best teachers. But we are definitely the most fun, and boy can we inspire. And, if you came to one of our dinner parties, you would know that, when push comes to shove, we handle our business, and could show our followers a thing or two about whipping up a solid meal.
Last weekend, Lindsay hosted Part 1 of a rather belated Birthday (21st! Tenth time around!) celebration for me at her house. I was in Italy for my actual birthday, and, since we’re the most self-absorbed, self-indulgent people in the world, we couldn’t let the occasion go by without acknowledging it again with a little soiree, NYC-style. And by “we,” I mean “I.”
Since we live in New York City in shoebox-sized apartments that cost us our entire paychecks and then some, we are both space- and budget-conscious in our planning. This is a skill Lindsay, in particular, could teach and teach well. For example, this was the tablescape (do I need to credit Sandra Lee for using that expression?) she created for me:
Wine bottles + chalkboard paint + colored chalk + one bouquet of mixed flowers from the deli + a couple of candle tapers = genius, totally playful display for >$20. And, with the leftover chalkboard paint, you can coat some walls in your house for a creative outlet that keeps on giving… or a space for your significant other to write “I will not leave wet towels lying on the wood furniture” 100 times over since they clearly didn’t get it the first 50 times you told them not to.
The appetizer Lindsay prepared was a feast for both the eyes and palate. Crispy crostini piled high with fresh ricotta, paper-thin slices of prosciutto, juicy peaches and honey. Food porn at its best:
After stuffing our pieholes with this, we were treated to homemade pot roast, courtesy of Josh, AKA “Is that Chris Robinson from the Black Crowes?” AKA Lindsay’s hubby. Slabs of melt-in-your-mouth beef only barely upstaged their plate mates – mounds of creamy, buttery mashed potatoes napped with salty, meaty gravy (from scratch, no less), and a bright, crisp salad of pea shoots, sugar snap peas and beans, brought by our resident “real chef” and salad-guru Morgan.
When we were so full we could barely swallow our own saliva, out waltzed a birthday tart (appropriate). Flaky pastry, vanilla cream, berries, kiwis, oranges… this thing had everything. I made a wish that I didn’t look as unattractive as everyone else always does in blowing-out-the-birthday-candles pictures.
You might wonder what I did to contribute to this glorious night. Well, I solved the burning question of whether or not people have a “good side” and “bad side” in pictures. They do.
At this point, wine pairings, shmine pairings. We drank everything in the house. Sauvignon Blanc, Lambrusco, Chardonnay, Malbec, Sangiovese… those who sipped water in excess shall remain nameless (but lets just say T. Mann… no, that would be too obvious… How about…Tim M. Credit goes to The Simpsons for that little comedic gem). It didn’t matter what went and what didn’t. The apartment was breezy, the food filling, the company entertaining, the conversation hilarious (“He touched me where I pee”).
You, too, can create this same experience in your home on your budget– whether your abode is 600 square feet and packed with 15 people, and you have $25 to your name, or you have a chef’s kitchen, no friends and a large bank account (message us what that’s like, please). All you need is some cheap beef, a few potatoes, some admittedly fancy veggies, a pastry shop the name of which you refuse to tell your friends, and some wine. A lot of wine. Oh, and a naughty sense of humor.
Stay tuned for Part 2 next weekend. Bubbles and Bar Food. I’m so excited I could pee. Where he touches me.