Pink Ladies Trump Vegas

Pink Lady apples are maybe the Greatest Things in the Whole Wide World. Now I know that in a previous post I might have intimated that Other Apples were, in fact, greater, but that was before I came to appreciate the Pink Lady in all it's Great Pinkness.

First of all, they really are pink. No kidding. Pink and kind of greenish yellow, which may not sound too appetizing, but my favorite colors when I was 8 were totally pink and green (and my favorite animal was a unicorn) so I was Ridiculously Excited. Secondly, they're Always Crunchy. Always. Few things in life disappoint me more than a mealy apple. Thirdly, I Wasn't Allergic. This, admittedly, is a personal appeal since for the first 25 years of my life I was Allergic to all manner of fresh, uncooked fruit and some nuts, including almost all varieties of apple. I still cannot eat Red Delicious apples. I will not bore you with the details of what happens when I do, but suffice to say it's not particularly healthy. But the Pink Lady has never treated me wrong. Ever.

Apparently, there are a lot of people who feel this way. Apparently, I'm a little late to hop on the Pink Lady wagon. There are Pink Lady fan clubs out there, lurking on the Internet. There are T-shirts and recipe books and histories of the breed. In fact, I would tell you all of the history and such, but Judy here has already written a great article (plus a recipe) about it, so you can just check that out on your own.

Late though I am, I am devoted. Thursday night I even cheated on Beefy Gym Boyfriend for my Pink Ladies. Instead of going to the gym before settling in for my weekly Grey's Anatomy fix, I went to the grocery store. I needed change for laundry and since The Greatest Bank Ever is actually located inside my local grocery store, I figured I might as well restock the old apple drawer.

In a way, I was also cheating on my good friend, Fluff, the Amazing Medical Illustrator, but not so blatantly, since Fluff lives in Chicago. (Fluff is hitherto the only blog-mentioned friend who has had the forethought to choose her own blog-name. She's clever like that. You'll have to ask her for the full story sometime.) See, I joined the gym not just because of the Evil Desk Job-induced hips, but also because I made a deal with Fluff: this year, she and I are going to Exercise to Las Vegas.

This is a figurative goal, of course. We're aiming to rack up the miles from Chicago to Vegas through various forms of activity. Initially, Fluff was going to try exercising to Birmingham since that's where she's from, but when I said I was up for it, we decided to shoot for Vegas, you know, because it sounds a little more exotic. Fluff and I were housemates in college—we shared a bathroom. She was on the women's soccer team and she taught swimming lessons and lifeguarded in the summer. In other words, she was the antithesis of Sparky-the-Inactive. And then we both went to full-time grad programs, known more appropriately in some circles as 20+ Pound Programs. No longer were we fit and lithe as in the days of old. Me being me, I wrote a few essays about it. Fluff being Fluff, she joined a gym and started running. And this year, she launched the Exercise for Vegas plan. In her first week, she did something like 20 miles.

Clearly, I had to step things up a bit.

Because Fluff is a True Friend, she's invented ways for me to earn miles without actually doing strenuous physical activity. For example, if I drink my eight, 8 oz. servings of water in one day then I get a half-a-mile. 15 minutes of heavy lifting (like when I reorganized our basement storage unit) is worth a mile because it's hard and usually involves multiple trips up and down multiple flights of stairs. Spending 1 hour at the grocery store is worth half-a-mile because I'm walking and bending and stretching. Oh, and 15 minutes of stretching is worth half-a-mile, too, because it's good for your muscles and keeps you limber.

Still, she was racking up 20 to 25 miles a week with her running and cycling whereas my weekly all time high was about 5. (Have I mentioned that I am a Cupcake?) When she got the roller blades, I knew I was going to be in some serious trouble.

Right after I joined my new gym, I tried an exercise class and thought that I might just keel over right there. To my defense, it wasn't exactly what I thought it would be. Some of the Really Nice People who go to the church where I work and who have been members at the Biggest Little Gym Ever for years invited me. They said, “Oh, you should come to this class! It's all about strengthening your Core and the teacher is really wonderful.”

I had worked on my Core before. I had done yoga and a little bit of pilates. I knew how to stretch and balance and focus and I thought that sounded pretty good. I said I'd love to come. Class was at 6AM on Wednesday morning. I said I'd be there.

The thumping workout music started while I was stretching on my floor mat. This should have been a clue, but it was 6AM and I was Rather Groggy. Perhaps this was one of those hybrid classes that combines a little bit of cardio with more yoga toward the end. Not so, my friends. 45 minutes later my abs were screaming so loudly that they heard them in Green Bay. “Wasn't that great?” asked the Really Nice People with their Perfectly Neat Teeth smiling.

“Yeah,” I panted, prostrate on my floor mat. “Great.”

I checked the gym schedule when I got home. 6AM, Wednesday: Ab Blast. I actually attended a class called Ab Blast.

Two days later, I threw my back out. You know, because my Core hadn't fully recovered.

These days, I'm starting a little more slowly. I think my high for the week is now up to 10 or 12 miles, thanks my water and my stretching and the banks of treadmills and countless free weights at the Biggest Little Gym Ever. Fluff says that's okay. We'll still make it to Vegas by January 1, 2008. I'm not so sure, but I'm trying to do my part, pull my own weight, so to speak. Make her proud. And Beefy. I want to make Beefy proud, too, since he's so loyal.

Except on Thursday, when I went to the grocery store. I had to. I had eaten my last apple. I was out of spinach. And zuccini. And I figured I should pick up some mushrooms. Except for a few stalks of wilted celery, my produce drawer was gapingly empty and this would not do. Beefy and Fluff would just have to forgive me. I needed my Pink Ladies.