Well it's officially that time of the year when the flowers
bloom, the grass greens, the birds sing and I put together a feeble
attempt to get into "banana hammock" shape. That's right
folks; summer is just around the corner, which means beaches,
gardening and oddly choreographed shirtless flexing when I take out
the trash or retrieve the mail. Its hard body time! No
more hot dog breakfasts and a little less powder
sugar lunches. This time I'm gonna make a change, a
change that will stick, stick like a honey bun - -Crap, I want a
honey bun. This is gonna be harder than I thought.
Let's start with the facts: I'm not obese! I never
get overheated enough to wear shorts the moment it gets over 40
degrees. I don't sweat when I talk, or look at cake (okay,
the cake part is a lie; I actually perspire whenever I'm in the
presence of pastries and I've been known to black out at the mere
mention of the word glaze), but I'm not in any sort of
medical danger. I've also hesitated to use the moniker
"over-weight," that's too subjective, instead I've took a real
liking to "doughy." That's right I consider myself a bit
doughy, mostly because all great things start with dough components
and it gives me a delicious factor that is hard to resist.
Last year I lost 20lbs with a piece of "functional art" that we
have in our living room, (The art in question is actually a very
expensive stationary bike my wife purchased 4 summers ago).
Even though we were both gung-ho about the possibilities it
possessed, I knew it would only see a week's worth of rigorous
activity before it became an increasingly irritable obstruction to
my T.V. viewing - - much like Robin Williams. Seriously, how
this obnoxiously incoherent babbler continues to make his way
around Hollywood is baffling. I once watched him answer the
very valid question, "So why did you decide to make Old Dogs?" with
"Ahh, Boo-ba Wha-wha. Hum-A-Duh, Hum-A-Duh, Hum-A-Duh
Week-week," and of course this was said with a Cockney accent while
dry-humping John Travolta's arm. I digress…
Anyway, I dusted off this sad piece of machinery and I
rode. We were making real progress and for 2 months I was
finally starting to see a return on our investment until…. I
once again realized the sheer bliss of 2 hour naps and
beer. Suddenly… Bam! My ridin' days were over. It
wasn't long before 172lbs became 173...174…
177...182...186...190...until I peaked last month at
193 pounds! The God's had spoken and it was time to put
"Operation See My Feet" into action, all I needed was a sure-fire
way to shed the foam around the bones. Now, I don't know if
it was the six-pack, bag of jellybeans, or my willingness to surf
541 channels until I pass out, but somewhere around 3am on a
channel usually reserved for shuttle landings and celebrity
endorsed acne medications, it appeared… P90X!
Labeled as a 90 day fitness routine that was guaranteed to
transform your body into that of a Greek God/Goddess, there was no
way I could fail. They were doing jumping-jacks.
I can do jumping-jacks. Therefore, after 90 days, I should look
like Hugh Jackman, or at the very least Gwen Stefani. And as
if this wasn't the greatest news ever, I found out a friend
actually has the program! I was destined to do this. So
I made the call.
Me: Can I borrow P90X?
Me: Is it hard?
Her: Uh yeah.
Me: "Hard" for you because you're a girl and you can't do
jumping-jacks? *She's a Crime Fighting Machine on the
Southside of Chicago
Day 1 (Core body something-or-other workout DVD)
I'm 3 minutes into the warm-up and I'm very concerned about the
amount of fluid that is literally running out of my body.
After a 10 minute pause, a cookie and a mouthful of Altoids to
restart my heart, I finish the warm-up and head into the 40 minute
"workout." 15 minutes later….I puked and took a nap on the
floor. Day 1= Failure. This would be a trend.
Here is a list of "highlights" after a week of Operation
And finally… after 4 weeks and 3 days of trimming the fat, I
found myself nearing a state of hyperventilation, waiting to be
called into the doctor's office. The reason for this
"emergency" visit was the very glamorous and super enjoyable "I've
just got kicked in the balls" feeling that has resided in my
underwear for the past 3 days. It was an unholy mixture of
pain and nostalgia (Oh the playground days of unprotected
kick-ball). After the doctor eliminated cancer, hernia and
some other culprit I found on WebMD, she assured me that it was
probably a muscle strain of sorts and that I needed to relax, cool
the workouts and fill up on Motrin. Elated to find out that
my ball wasn't trying to divorce my body, I stepped out of the
office and into a bakery where I proceeded to polish off
a celabatory half a dozen freshly baked cookies and a chocolate
croissant. It's gonna be a scary summer.
To be continued…
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