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Hot Yoga: I Will Die With Abs

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Four weeks ago, raw panic set in as I realized that I have to wear a toga this summer, so I found hot yoga.

 

I’m not wearing the toga for fun, mind you, but an author event in beautiful Frankenmuth, Michigan, a glorious little town with Christmas, Polka, giant pretzels, fudge, and midwestern charm to spare.

Long story short: I am 6′”1. I was at 250 pounds of. . .let’s call it “human”. Not fat, not muscle. Just critically forty-nine years old and in need of a boost.

Enter hot yoga.

I went. I gasped. I sweated– Lord above, did I sweat; like I was a spy under interview lights– and my heart pounded from a tortuously fluid series of motions that went on for three days.

Okay, one hour, but still.

But it’s amazing. I love it. It quiets my mind, and makes me work harder than I’ve ever done in any other workout, and all with a smooth deliberation that leaves me energized and at peace. It’s incredible.

Today I did the Crow pose and Eagle for the first time (without falling over like a giant Polish tree). It’s quite a sensation. I have three months until the Day of Toga Reckoning, and I think I will be– not beach ready, but Toga Ready.

That’s a thing, right?

ALSO!

Follow me on YouTube. I’m doing writer-y stuff.

5 Minute Author Coach

See you this summer, my calendar is up to date!

Cheers,

Terry

Goal: Somewhere between then and now, but with shorter shorts.

My Health Journey: Parte the Firste

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I know, Christmas time might not be the best starting point for a *ahem* reshaping of my body and diet, but I’m nearly two weeks in and no going back.

Unless I eat seventy-five Oreo’s, but still.

Before we go any further, a point of clarification: Weight is not my sole concern. In fact, it’s actually fifth on the list, behind my heart, teeth, ability to live long enough to use coupons without irony, and blood pressure.

Goal: Somewhere between then and now, but with shorter shorts.

So, the grim statistics:

49 years old.

Starting weight– 260 (pounds, not kilograms. I’m an American, not some fancy European who measures out tiny blocks of cheese and carries it home in a wicker basket while laughing and listing to French jazz or whatever).

Starting blood pressure: Not bad, but not great. 121 over 90.

Hair and teeth: Present and accounted for.

General feeling: Thick, not Thicc, and vaguely immobile. This galls me in particular due to my love of sports, running (running isn’t a sport, it’s meditation while gasping), and walking up stupid hills. All hills are stupid when you’re not hiking, and even then, they’re only tolerable.

I’ll report weekly, and then in January, will go to the doctor for a general “State of the Union” exam.

If you’ve made any life changes and have found recipes or foods that scratch the itch, so to speak, I’d love to hear them.

My weaknesses are:

Sweets.

Sweet things.

Things that can be made sweet by adding sweeteners.

Sweet things wrapped around sweet things.

Gravy.

More to come as this list expands with memory.

Let’s be support buddies and such.

Cheers,

Terry (who thinks he is hungry)

 

 

magical realism halfway drowned witchy

Cover Reveal and Death By Pushup: September

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YEAHHHHHHH.

 

New book in three weeks. New cover? Now.

Doom brought on by pushups? Soon. I’d like to say more, but my “side-man-boobs” hurt every day and there’s no end in sight. I feel as if there is something happening to my body, but I’m not exactly sure what it is. There are lumps– also known as muscle– but they’re under my arms in a weird place, presumably good for some purpose that has not yet revealed itself.

I’m sort of thinking that one day, I’ll be in a stressful situation and BOOM, flap of skin or wings or gills or something will burst forth and won’t that be fun?

Here’s the new cover, and we’re going to have nice giveaway one week before. Two Amazon gift cards, some paperbacks, all that jazz. I’ll let you know, and until then, I’ll be doing pushups, writing, and avoiding butter beans, which as we all know, are Of the Devil.

Terry

 

RAIGraphic

Now With 100% More Virginia.

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I’m going back to Virginia this weekend for the Roanoke Author Invasion. It’s not, technically, an invasion, because none of us will be driving tank. Also, invaders rarely show up with candy and prizes, both of which will be on hand in good supply.

Some of the things I will have (but not limited to):

Books.

Books.

Postcards.

Books.

Bookmarks.

Candy.

A van.

This is totally legit and not creepy at all.

I will also have postcards with the TOP SECRET ART from Moonborn. If you’re on my mailing list, you’ll see it today. If not you should join. I have little contests, giveaways, etc, and it’s a great way to share books. Sign up here: http://terrymaggert.com/get-the-newsletter/

In other news, I’m going to the eye doctor today to revisit contact lenses. I had LASIK seventeen years ago and my distance vision is perfect, but now I have to use reading glasses and it makes me feel like I’m one step away from clipping coupons and yelling at kids to get off my lawn. Do you wear contacts instead of reading glasses? Let me know what you wear, I’m open to product recommendations.

Halfway Drowned is at 18,000 words and it’s FLYING. I’ll post a snippet next week.

Cheers!

Terry

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The misery of dieting.

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I began the Spring Pre-Running Diet. I will fist fight for: pizza, cheese, spicy tuna sushi rolls, cheeseburgers, fried anything, milkshakes, ice cream, pie, waffles, or cake.

I will also, at the minimum, wrestle for pancakes, steak, eggs with actual cheese, a bucket of ketchup, mayo on a shoe, bread, cookies, hash browns, sausage, any kind of casserole, tacos, fish sandwiches (species irrelevant) and any animal that has ever lived in the ocean with the exception of a walrus, and even that’s negotiable.

As you may guess, my life is not unlike that of an insect– a large, six foot tall insect that goes through the following life cycle every year:

  1. Spring- a time of emergence from the grim winter, thickened and pale, not unlike a grub– but one who wears clothes and complains about Daylight Savings Time.
  2. Summer. Utter joy! I run! I tan! I fish! I leap about, all while becoming the human I was always meant to be, but with a glistening coat of sweat at all times.
  3. Fall. the magic of autumn, in which I begin to pupate as my conversion into a Basic White Girl takes hold. Coffee! Pumpkins! Holidays! Turkey and pie and shame! Mild existential dread at knowing that after Christmas, life is over!
  4. Winter. Pre-Pre-Christmas! Pre-Christmas! CHRISTMAS! Moderate depression after Christmas. The letdown of New Year’s Eve, following by the horror of sunset at 4:30 PM. My body begins to spin a cocoon of fat, even as the tan fades from my skin. I think what the sun used to look like, and sigh.

So, that’s where I’m at. Post-Winter Diet: check. Moderate anger: check.

I feel like there’s a lot of broccoli in my future, and it makes me sad.

Whatever,

Terry

Pushups are the Devil

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I’m on this stupid health and exercise kick, and it means giving up things like pie and cake for a while. As a man of a certain age, I have certain fears, which include (but are not limited to):

  1. Pleated khakis.
  2. Losing my hair.
  3. Belly.
  4. A larger belly.
  5. Chewing food like I’m a beetle.
  6. A compulsion to use coupons at dinner.
  7. Socks and sandals together.

Thus far, I’ve avoided most of that. Teeth are still good. Mind still feels sharp, unless it’s car keys and then I act as if every day is an archaeological hunt. I’m writing more emotional, lurid scenes that ever before, so I feel that (professionally), I’m better than ever. Writing is a muscle, but you know what else is a muscle?

Muscles.

I totaled last month’s pushup total from my Exercise Log of Doom, and the number was 2805.

That’s a lot of pushups for a middle-aged guy, or at least it is for me. It’s having an effect. I feel like my mind is slightly clearer, with less tendency to be dreamy when I’m writing. Does that make sense?

It’s also vanquishing fear number nine from the above list, which I saved for here: Moobs

I don’t want to have the chest of an American Buddha, so this whole nightmare of pushupageddon is actually working out rather well.

I still hate it, though. It’s like work, but with your face on the floor and lots of wheezing.

The goal for this month is 3000. Oh, and no bra. Ever.

New book is at 60,000 words. Done in a week. you’re going to love it. I’m over the moon for Livvy and a new character, Danila. She’s amazing.

Cheers.

 

Send Egg Recipes.

by with No Comment random thoughts

I’m on a super complicated diet this Spring. It’s mostly eggs, hot sauce, and eggs.

Regardless, I’m asking the internet and my bookfriends if you have any recipes pertaining to the following food items:

Eggs.

Veggies, preferably a huge amount.

I’m also doing a LOT of pushups, so anything that can help with higher protein (beans? maybe?) is most welcome.

Things I will eat: Everything on the planet except butter beans. Don’t you dare come ot me with butter beans, I will totally roll out a judo chop.

Things I REALLY like: Spicy stuff. Asian food. Mediterranean food. German food. American food. Food. Also, food.

Things I have to avoid for now: Bread and breadlike substances, although rice noodles are cool.

I used to own a restaurant, so I’ve been cooking for years, but I’m open to the wonders of new recipes.

If you submit a recipe that I go nuts over, is it alright to forward on in a new blog post?

Okay, whaddayagot?

Sincerely,

A boy, asking a pile of cauliflower to be hot wings.

 

 

I love you.

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I am forty-eight, and I have achieved a kind of balance where I can now tell my friends I love them.

It’s liberating and invigorating and a lot of other action verbs (gerunds, I think) and I’ve waited my entire life for the satisfaction of having friends– some who have known me for thirty years or more– to whom I can say, without hesitation, “I love you.”

Yes, we may accompany this with an awkward male hug or no hug at all, but it’s an unexpected benefit of aging that, up until recently, had been wholly unknown to me.

I anticipated the aches and pains, the, ahem, thickening around the midsection. The, ahem, lines of character, hard earned and now worn as an emblem of experience and a life well lived.

What I did not anticipate is what I’ve seen older men doing around me all my life. They are both sweeter– yes, sweeter– and meaner all at once, a contradiction I’d previously only found in childish candy and chocolate milk on the verge of spoilage. It’s a heady sensation to me, since I (among everyone who knows me) am most surprised to see myself here, on the cusp of fifty– happy, rich with friends, and able to put away the concerns of a younger man.

I think it’s the best of both worlds. In my mind, I am twenty-something, an impervious wall of the me I knew from mirrors long ago, but a construct; a thing that existed only at a glance.

I like this aspect of me a great deal more. My son senses it. My bride, too.

I think getting older means that going slower means we are free. Free to say things like I love you without irony or care.

I’m also closer to the senior discount at Denny’s, and yes, I will use it.

I’m a man!

 

Life Without Cookies

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Or cake.

Or pie.

Or waffles, milk, flour, cheese, and joy, yes, there will be no joy, not in this house.

Bride is doing a really interesting thing known as the Whole Life Challenge. It’s kind of cool– focusing on better food, plenty of sleep ( a must!), stretching, meditation, and overall health.

In short, all the things we tend to ignore because of life, kids, spouses, bounty hunters, outstanding warrants, and existential crises. You know, the usual.

It has a lot of things to like in it– case in point, here’s a drink I would have never tried, but I did, and OH BOY is it good: Golden Latte Super Fancy Drink!

So here I am, day three without my usual inundation of junk food. I’m intensely curious to see what happens. I’m almost fifty— things start to break down. I’m no longer under warranty, so to speak, and one of the things that I hope to preserve is my mind. You know, no more ten minute search parties looking for my keys, or wallet, or sock, or shoes. Stuff like that.

I’ve written fifty thousand words in my current book, and this dietary change makes me ask the question: will I write better or more efficiently if I’m not standing at the sink, mindlessly chewing cookies like a very tall cow that wears underwear and a contented smile?

We shall see. I’m going to go two full weeks (also time to recover from the Man Flu, of course) and see what happens.

Between this, the pushups, and wearing a FitBit, I might not survive.

Getting Older.

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As we roll into 2017, I’m one year closer to being fifty.

I can’t believe it.

Regardless, due too eating to much between the hours of 1-3AM, which is apparently when I MUST HAVE CAKE, I started running last year. I love it.

But, I only like running outside, and in the heat. The hotter the better, which leaves me in a lurch right now as Tennessee is in the midst of our own Arctic Winter. And then summer, and then winter again, but mostly winter.

So, I started a pushup challenge with myself. I did forty pushups (not all at once) about three weeks ago. Today, I just did four hundred. Again, not all at once, but you get the picture. To my horror, I seem to kind of like them, and I can do them anywhere that gravity exists. I think the goal is to run outside with no shirt (and not scare people) this summer, which means I’ve got five months to go. I’m keeping a log book, and when it’s time to run, I’ll add up my pushups and see just how many it takes to turn back the clock a bit.

In other news, I really appreciate Oreo Thins being sold in convenient single-serving packages of forty.