The Ballad of Zhenia and Niko

Georgians, like a lot of Europeans, get married twice – once in an “official” civil ceremony and once in the church.  Our friend, Niko, was married several years ago in a civil ceremony.  Since his wife, Zhenia, became pregnant, however, she’s been thinking about getting married in the church so their baby can be christened/baptized in the church. Niko's been trying to make that happen, but he's been divorced before, something the Eastern Orthodox Church does not take lightly or kindly. So he's been talking to the Bishop of Tbilisi to get the Georgian equivalent of an annulment so he can make a church wedding happen. I say "talking to" when "financially negotiating" might be a better description. The Bishop decides Niko can get married in the Church if he makes a rather sizable "donation" to the Patriarchate (somewhere in the neighborhood of $2000). But, and here's the catch: he must get married TODAY. Seems that once he annuls the first marriage, Niko would be living in sin (despite the civil ceremony) so he has to get married immediately or move out of the apartment he shares with his wife and parents. Niko obviously decides to get married today.

So, since we're on the way to work while all this is happening, we do a U-turn and head back to Tbilisi while Niko makes phone calls. The only thing scarier than Niko's driving is Niko's driving while he's on the phone. His first call is not to his wife, as one would expect, but to his father to find out if the "donation" is reasonable. After determining that $2k is steep but reasonable (considering Niko has no choice in the matter), Niko calls the Bishop and agrees to get married today. Note he still hasn't called his wife.

Niko then calls his designated best man so he can leave work early for the wedding. He still hasn't called his wife.  As an afterthought, Niko says to us, "You guys want to come to my wedding?" We say, sure, why not? There's nothing good on TV tonight anyway.  THEN he calls Zhenia to break the news to her. She isn't thrilled, but what can she do? This is all her idea. Now, Zhenia's parents live in Moscow; they're not coming to the wedding. Niko's mother and sister are in NYC at the sister's house. They're not coming, either.

As we drop off Niko at his flat, Zhenia comes tearing down the steps (well, as much as a woman in her 7th month of pregnancy can "tear"). She has to go to the hairdresser. She gives Niko the stink eye, but what can he do? So off she goes -- zoom. Or more accurately, -- waddle.  We Americans meet in a local bar to have a beer and some lunch and wait for the announcement. Did I mention that Niko doesn't know exactly WHERE they're getting married or WHEN? Other than somewhere in Tbilisi today.

Eventually, we get a call that the wedding will be in 10 minutes at the oldest church in Tbilisi, the Basilica of St. Mary. Fortunately and coincidentally, we're IN the bar right next to the church, so we chug our beers and head over for the ceremony.

The ceremony is typical Eastern Orthodox. The women wear scarves (makes you wonder why Zhenia had to get her hair done), and the maid of honor has a piece of material wrapped around her waist to simulate a skirt since she's in pants. The only men wearing ties are the Americans.  Everyone else is in jeans and sweaters.  The church is cold, so the wedding party wears coats. A quick ceremony and they're married.

We congratulate the slightly breathless and annoyed couple, and head back to the bar to celebrate.  Niko tells us that there will be a “small reception party” at a local restaurant sometime tonight.  He’ll call us.

The call comes at 7:30pm:  “Hey, where are you?  We’re celebrating at the Fortuna.  Nothing big, just me and Zhenia and some friends.  Come on down.”  Not wanting to be rude, and because there’s no beer in my fridge, we head to the Fortuna Restaurant for a “small party.”  I must be the stupidest man in Georgia.

His “small party” is a full-blown supra for approximately 30 people.  Which means there’s enough food and alcohol for 60 people.  We certainly don’t want to offend the overwhelmed and slightly inebriated groom and his lovely and flustered bride, so we dive right in to the whole supra scene.  On a school night.  When we have a very important briefing the next day to the US Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense for Eurasia.  I said I must be the stupidest man in Georgia.  We finally escape from the restaurant four hours later with the party still in full flight and the bride sleeping peacefully in an overstuffed chair in the corner covered by a tablecloth. 

Just another typically Georgian event, but one I’m glad I got to experience.  Thanks for reading.

The problem of being a PT god wannabe

I have a karate workout partner who constantly reminds me, “Know who you have in front of you.”  I can follow this tenet in the dojo, on the street, and in the classroom.  Unfortunately, I lose that perceptive when I look in the mirror.  Being in shape has always been a part of my life.  I ran track and played baseball in high school, ran track in college, and then entered the Army where physical training (or PT, as it’s known in the Army) is a part of every duty day.  When I retired from the Army I wanted to stay in shape so I joined a gym, began a serious weight lifting regimen, doubled down on my karate workouts, and (most of the time) tried to watch what I ate.  And, to be a bit vain, I’m in pretty good shape for a 55 year old. 

Unfortunately, when I read workout magazines, I forget I’m 55.  Best I can figure, my ego thinks we’re still 25.  You know what ego is – it’s that ugly little troll that lives under the bridge between reality and self-delusion.  And it’s ego that reads a workout that calls for three sets of 10 reps using this much weight, and says, “We can do that.  No problem.”  And it’s ego that makes us run excitedly to the gym over lunch and push, pull, sweat, and grunt through that workout.  (OK, to be honest, that last set of 10 sometimes turns into 8 reps.  Or 6.  Or even 4.  But that’s it.)  When I’m done, I feel tired and rejuvenated and happy with what I’ve accomplished.  And, even better, ego has been served and retreats back under that bridge.

And then I wake up the next morning.  I roll out of bed, wondering if that creaking is coming from the bed frame or from me.  I walk stiff-legged to the bathroom, holding my arms out in front of me and groaning like the Mummy from old horror movies.  I have to sit to do my business because I can’t bend over far enough to lift the seat.  (Sorry for that mental picture.)  Ego, which the day before was all part of the team and thought lifting all those weights was a good idea, now wants to know what the hell I was thinking. 

I try to wear polo shirts and loafers as much as possible because buttoning shirts, knotting a tie, and tying shoes are a bit more than I can handle in the mornings.  My arms refuse to function properly, whether due to a buildup of lactic acid or simply due to a desire to punish my stupidity, I don’t know.   Fortunately, my coworkers are full of great ways to avoid the inevitable stiffness and soreness the next morning.

The first suggestion was to lie in a tub of 60⁰ water for twenty minutes.  Now how the hell does hypothermia prevent stiffness??  Seems counterintuitive, especially because the stiffness would be the end result of rigor mortis after I have a heart attack from dropping my butt in a tub of 60⁰ water.  Scratch that suggestion.

The next suggestion was to increase the amount of protein in my diet.  The hypothesis is, your body gets sore because you’ve torn muscle fibers during your workout.  By adding extra protein to your diet, the body repairs those fibers more quickly, thereby decreasing the S²  problem.  So, a couple of 12-egg omelets later, garnished with 10-ounce ribeyes on the side and washed down with a protein shake made from Myotein powder, just left me with stiff arteries to go along with my still-stiff muscles.  Scratch that suggestion, too.

Another friend suggested caffeine as a stiffness reducing elixir.  So I started drinking coffee and tea throughout the day.  The result?  Now I’m awake all night so I get to feel that stiffness and soreness even more.  Plus, who can drink coffee or tea without a cookie or 12?  Kinda defeats the purpose of going to the gym in the first place.

I was told to add ginger to my orange juice.  Have you ever tried OJ w/ ginger?  (Which reminds me of the old OJ Simpson joke:  Have you heard OJ has a new webpage address?  It’s slash, slash, backslash, run, escape.)  I was told to drink lots of Gatorade after working out.  I was told to drink more water, flushing the lactic acid out of my body.  That one did work a little bit:  I was up every half hour Mummy-ing my way to the bathroom.  Maybe that little extra work kept the muscles looser; I don’t really know.

Finally, I hit upon the right answer:  It’s not how many reps you lift, it’s how much weight you’re pushing.  So I’ve hit upon the perfect compromise.  I’m now going to focus on lifting 12 ounces six times a day.  It won’t help keep me in shape, but at least I won’t care.

Thanks for reading, and if you have any ideas on how to avoid feeling stiff and sore the day after a workout, let me know.