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 Minimize Me…..
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…