Category Archives: I’m a fatass

Death by Shapewear

Alright y’all.   As you may have read eons ago I’m making 2013 THE YEAR for my corrupted ass to get fit and healthy.  So, after a few false starts I’m full steam ahead with a healthy diet and daily exercise plan.  There’s just one caveat.  Recently I ventured out to do a little spring wardrobe shopping.  Now, mind you, I know I’m going to plummet in size shortly so I didn’t really want to spend a ton of money on size 12 clothing when we all know I’ll be a size 8 shortly…well maybe a 10, but you get the point.  I decided to invest in a little shapewear during the interim.  Just a little something to keep my jiggly bits from doing just that.  You know, while I wait for them to become ABS OF STEEL.

I picked a camisole looking piece that seemed like the right choice.  My butt and thighs are fine, it’s just my poochy belly so I thought this seemed like a good place to start.  I grabbed a dressing room and decided to give is a whirl.  Now mind you, this thing is supposed to be tight so I picked a smaller size than I normally would because that’s the whole point, right?

Well.

I pulled the thing on over my head and started putting my arms through it while trying to pull it down over my boobs/belly.  Notsomuch.  This thing was like a sausage casing. It was so damn tight I could barely pull my elbows down around my head.  My arms were kind of stuck up in the air with the piece wrapped around my head and neck.  This didn’t seem right.  I fought with it a little more and got it down under my chin and around my middle.  I immediately realized that this thing was waaaaaaaaaay too small.  No biggie, I thought, I’ll take it off and go back out and make another selection.

It wasn’t that easy.  As soon as I tried to lift it back over my head I realized I was in trouble.  This thing was wrapped around me like a starved Boa Constrictor.  I heaved and pulled and stretched, all to no avail.  By now I had one boob up under my chin and one pointing due south towards my belly.  The more I struggled with it the more panicky I got.  I was grunting and groaning and starting to hyperventilate.  My eyes were bulging out of my head.  My hair was flying around with static electricity and I could feel the perspiration forming on my top lip.  My heart beat quickened at the thought that they just may have to call the Fire Department to cut me out of this evil garment.  I had to sit down on the little bench in the dressing room to catch my breath.  It was half on and half off but it had me in a death grip.  As I flailed about the room some more the tag landed square in front of my face where the instructions read that I was supposed to step into this thing feet first, like a bathing suit and take it off the same damn way.  Evidently it was not to go over your head in the first place.   This little tidbit would have been good to know fifteen minutes ago.

I finally wriggled free after what seemed like an eternity.  As I huffed and puffed and put my shirt back on I realized that anything has got to be easier than that, including exercise.  I left the mangled thing on the bench, all tangled up and stained with my deodorant.  Serves it right.  You know how you tap the biscuits in the can on your counter top and the dough puffs out through cardboard creases?   That’s exactly how I looked.

Tonight’s dinner?  Salad with a side of salad and salad for dessert.  Jesus.

Home Sweat Home

Over three weeks into the new year and guess how much weight I’ve lost?

Not one god forsaken ounce.

I know these things take time but really?  Not even one lousy pound?  I’m surprised I didn’t go into some type of sugar deprived coma with the abrupt overnight cessation of martinis alone.  I’m actually doing quite well and I know that 23 days aren’t enough to gauge any type of progress, really.    I’d like to think that I’m not losing weight because I’m building muscle.  That sounds good, doesn’t it?  I’m on the stinking treadmill every night holding on for dear life while listening to “rad runnerz trax” or some shit I downloaded from iTunes in a lame-o effort to get motivated.  My coordination level doesn’t lend itself well to that medieval torture machine but I’m trying.  I’m waiting for my sweatpants to somehow get caught in the belt and consequently fling me like a human slingshot into the hallway just as Johnny is coming  downstairs.

I’m eating right.  Small portions.  Lots of veggies and leafy greens.  Almonds and apple snacks.  Lots of water.  As I mentioned before every night I borderline slip into a coma when I crawl into bed.  I’m also spending a LOT more time in the bathroom but for just this once, I’ll spare you the details.  I’m steaming broccoli and cauliflower.  I’m drinking green tea and taking vitamins.  I AM WALKING THE WALK, people.

At the peak of my frustration last weekend a casual acquaintance told me about a circuit training group she belongs to and invited me as her guest to tag along for a class.  Insert record scratching off the turntable noise here.  This, my friends, was the missing link.

You long time readers may remember my foray into Boot Camp a few years ago.  It turned out to be one of the best decisions I’d ever made.  I lost weight and gained muscle and made life long friends.  I figured anything is worth a look, right?  It’s clear that my haphazard approach to exercise wasn’t really panning out.    So, I said sure and off we went this last Tuesday.   As I followed her into the parking lot that evening I started to get nervous.  It was a shot-out old warehouse down a dimly lit street in a not-so-great area of town.  As I manuevered my car around the gravel parking lot dodging watery potholes I caught a glimpse of some hooded figures lurking around the front door under a spastically flickering lightbulb.  My first thought was “THE FIRST RULE OF FIT CLUB IS YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIT CLUB”.

Seriously.  It looked waaaaaaaaaaay dodgy.

As we walked inside and my eyes adjusted to the bright lights, I  spotted a trash can in the center of the room.  It had a sign taped to it that read, “INSERT VOMIT HERE”.

Awwww, hells yes…I’m home.   For the next hour I did squats.  I lunged.  I did push-ups and I ran and then ran some more.  I did 100 sit-ups.  I was also introduced to some sort of Satanical practice called the “burpee”, which clearly was just made up to make people barf and lose their will to live.  I almost did both.   I was so sore when I got home that I could barely lower myself onto the couch and when a sneeze surprised me later that night, it almost brought tears to my eyes.

Yesterday morning found me rolling out of bed and crawling to the bathroom until I was able to brace myself on the sink to rise up on my two wobbly legs.  Holy shit balls was I sore.  So what did I do?  I went back for more last night.  Weights, bench presses and kettlebells.  Running.  Jumping jacks.  More laughter than tears combined with a whole lot of sweat.   I joined on the spot.  I called my hoodie-wearing instructor “the real Slim Shady” and managed to earn myself a couple extra laps.  Just like old times!  Now if I just had my pals Brooks and Doyle beside me.  Well, in their honor I will continue.  I will sweat, swear and audibly fart just for you guys.  I WILL GO ON.

I don’t need a clean well lit fitness center with a smoothie bar.  I don’t need “hot” yoga.  I don’t need a bunch of classmates wearing matching Old Navy capris and cami’s.  I need a dirty-ass dark warehouse filled with people that smell bad and one in particularly motivational fella that will encourage you to push yourself until you excel and meet expecations higher than you could ever set for yourself.

Or you may just vomit.

Either way, as they say, you’re lapping everyone who is sitting on their couch.  Look out 45, I’m totally going to kick your ass.

Peace and Pedals

So here it is, the 5th day of the year and I’m up and sipping on green tea this chilly January morning.    I’m thankful for the weekend.  What is it about “short” weeks that make them seem endless?  As I mentioned before, I’m grateful 2012 is behind us and I’m anxious and excited to see what lies ahead in 2013.

This is day five of no booze, lots of veggies/greens/lean meats and plenty of pure unadulterated sleep.  Now that’s something that I’ve totally underestimated in the last few years of my life.  I’m jittery by nature and am usually a fitful sleeper, except for in days of the past where I could sleep save snore at my desk back in my single years at DCC.  Of course, that was usually the direct result of my getting home around 4am the night before courtesy of some bands’ tour bus.

I can’t believe how fantastic I feel each morning.  I head to bed around 10pm these days and read for about an hour.  I’m asleep within minutes and yesterday I barely even had to make my bed because when I arose and turned around to to do so there was only one little corner of quilt folded over where I had exited the bed.  The covers and pillows were still as pristine as if an invisible hotel maid had just fluffed them.   Hurray for corpse-like slumber!

I’m getting on board with green tea as well.  I know, haters gonna hate but seriously, this stuff is pretty good.  I’m a one cup of coffee here and there kinda gal so I haven’t had a terrible adjustment with a caffeine withdrawl or anything like that.  Truth is, the mornings around here are in the upper 20’s and a piping hot cup of tea is just the thing to warm up your insides and clear your focus.   My BFF Jane introduced me to Tazo Zen and I’m totally hooked.  I drink it at home morning and night and at work and let’s be honest, can’t we all use a little more Zen in our lives?

This morning I’m embarking on a 15 mile bike ride through the greenways and along the Tennessee River.  Yes, it’s 32 degrees but I have the appropriate gear and the insane motivation to feel the icy wind in my face while the sun warms my shoulders.  I’m sure I’ll end up rosy cheeked with snot icicles dangling from my nose, but that’s alright.  It’s a beautiful winter morning and I’m here to see it.  This day has never been lived before,  so I’m gonna go out there and see what I can do with it.  I hope you guys do the same.  I heard someone the other day say, “don’t trip on what’s behind you” and I’ve decided to make that my affirmation.  At least for today.*

* the irony is not lost on me that even sober, I sound drunk.  humor me, won’t you?  I promise to return to my suddenly-all-time-spectacular-bowel-movements shortly.

Waist Management

Well, it’s back to the gym for me after a self-indulgent winter sabbatical. I knew it was time, but it took a comment from that stupid slut lady in my Yoga class to really drive the point home.
In case you didn’t read that delightful post, she asked me if I was expecting a baby. After I removed my fist from her mouth I reflected on my current exercise habits. It’s true that I’ve let things slide (and sag) during these winter months. Getting out of bed at 5am and scraping a frozen windshield is tantamount to oral surgery. Or anal surgery for that matter, but don’t get me started.

The real pisser is the fact that I have not gained any weight. I am the same weight as I was when I finished boot camp, it’s just that I’m a little softer. A bit doughy, really. My clothes fit a wee bit on the snug side, the ones that still fit anyway. My new found muscles have apparently turned into taffy. The other night I was looking at my reflection in the mirror. A bit of a “muffin top” has appeared in my mid-section. “I certainly don’t look pregnant“, I thought to myself.
Then I turned sideways. Humph. Thankfully, I appear to be in my first trimester.

This is quite motivational. I am hardly obese – I am 5’7 and 150 lbs. I am within my healthy BMI for whatever that crap means. Evidently my BMI hasn’t seen me in my jeans lately.
According to my Women’s Health magazine, cutting back on alcohol increases weight loss drastically. After reading that *helpful hint*, I cursed the sky with raised fists, “empty calories MY ASS! I’ll just drink booze for every meal and cut out food, so there!”

However, I’ve tried that diet in the past and while effective, not recommended.

So, it’s back to the treadmill and more squats, crunches and jumping jacks. On the menu tonight will be tossed greens with a *lite* dressing and a piece of chicken the size of my ear. As much as I prefer the Taco Bell entree with a glass of vodka for dessert, it’s time to get serious (again) about toning up and exercising daily. Summer is right around the corner and I refuse to greet it looking like a Russian shot-putter.

How many Weight Watchers points are there in a dirty martini?

Jack and Back = Heart Attack

Okay, maybe not, but there were a few points over this weekend where I thought my head might explode.

First of all, it is NOT supposed to be 95 degrees in October in the South, thank you very much.

Secondly, When I initially signed up for this charity bike ride, the form said 50 miles one way. The second email I got said 55 miles. Yesterday, I found it was 60 miles, one way. Some folks think that they lessen the mileage on the paperwork because of the psychological factor. Well, I’m here to tell you, when your odometer flips to 55 miles and you have been pedalling uphill for 30 minutes on hot black pavement under the beating sun and there is NO END IN SIGHT it does not bode well for one’s psyche. In fact, at one point I wasn’t sure if it were sweat or tears rolling down my flushed cheeks.

Thirdly, the next time I decide to ride 120 miles in two days for a charity it will be in Indiana. Or Michigan. Or somewhere FLAT. The rolling hills of Tennessee are gorgeous, sure. From your back porch or a car window, perhaps. Better yet, on a postcard or calendar I view from my air conditioned home while sipping a martini.

I rode this charity ride with my pal, Barb. Barb is a bit of a prankster, you could say. It was around mile 8 when I realized Barb had planted a “fart machine” in my riding pack under my bike seat. A REMOTE CONTROLLED fart machine. We came upon our first large hill and feeling confident and show-offy, I decided to dust a few of my fellow cyclists and pass them going uphill. As I yelled “on your left” to a group of cyclists, a VERY LOUD (yet muffled, which added to its believability) fart rang out, breaking the morning silence. “Beeeeeuuuuuuuuuu?”. It was like a fart question, really. You know how they sometimes get high pitched at the end and trail off?

Fantastic. I’m no Nancy Drew, but it didn’t take me long to figure out what was happening. I steadied myself to look behind me. Barb was all over the road trying to control her bicycle and her laughter. I was red-faced as well, but from embarrassment. The fart machine had a little repertoire. Around 7 different varieties. Awesome. They ran the gamut from “long and juicy” to “short and angry”.

So it went. Up hills and down. At stoplights and in the hills and dales. People would pass me, Barb would hit the button. I would stop at a signal light. Barb would ask me if I was feeling alright, and hit the damn button. I must be as bad as she because I started to really have fun with it. I hiked my leg a few times and made a face. If she surprised me, I’d apologize profusely to the passing cyclist, feigning embarrassment. Sometimes I’d just laugh because that was really all I could do. Peoples reactions were hilarious. Some commented, some laughed, some were disgusted and just shook their heads. We let a few folks in on our secret and they were convulsing with laughter. One fellow biker even said “ya’ll deserve an award for that -it’s terrific”.

Just so you know that even though we’re bad ass power bicyclists, we still know how to have fun.

We met a lot of really cool people and drank a lot of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. The fart machine was especially fun on the bus ride down from the distillery. Yes, I know – Barb and I are the equivalent of two 9 year old boys.

Anyway, it was challenging and I loved rising to it and completing it. I have mentioned before that I’d like to turn 40 years old and kick its ass. Some folks will never know the adrenaline of crouching boob to knee, flying down a winding hill in a Tennessee Valley at 40 mph on a bicycle. Then again, some folks will never know the *glory* of going straight uphill so slowly, that you think you may start to go backwards back down the hill. Sweat dripping, shoulders dropping, butt throbbing and legs cramping.

So, thanks Barb. Thanks for making me laugh for most of 120 miles and always believing that we would make it.

United We Swim

When I signed up for boot camp, they promised me “fun, fitness and camaraderie”. The fun and fitness are fine, I thought, but I don’t need no stinkin‘ camaraderie. I have enough friends, thank you very much.

I take that back.

Through this little venture, I have met some pretty spectacular people. After a few sessions little groups developed, as they are prone to do. I was lucky enough to insert myself smack in the middle of what I think are THE COOL KIDS. I’m hoping they don’t notice. We are a hodgepodge of sorts and I marvel at how I have literally only known these women for four weeks and yet I feel like I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know them. We have literally clicked together effortlessly and have developed an early morning sisterhood which, I’m thrilled to report, has spilled over into our “real” lives as well. We actually meet up on purpose now, not just at 5:15am to take our punishment. Of course, so far these meetings are held in establishments known for serving adult beverages, but as you can imagine, I couldn’t be happier. It’s not like we’re forming a knitting club or a Bible study.

These women are smart, successful and hysterically funny. These women GET IT. You know how hard that is to find? There are two in particular that keep me from puking every morning. Brooks and Doyle. Brooks is relatively new to Tennessee and needs to quit her day job and audition for “Last Comic Standing” pronto. Doyle has a sharp and self-deprecating sense of humor and a very kind heart.

Random quotes:

“Yeah, because nothing says “I want to lose weight” like a greasy pancake breakfast.”

“If you don’t like fried chicken, the terrorists have already won.”

“You know what I hate more than bats? RABIES.”

There is one gal in bootcamp who is quickly becoming our nemesis. She is the largest of the group, and we have all offered encouragement and friendly morning greetings, only to be met with scowls and dismissal. We’re not sure why – I’m not saying she has to braid my hair and sit with me at lunch and be my BFF, but when I say good morning, she could freakin’ SAY IT BACK. Anyway, not to pick on the fat girl, but….she’s mean.

This morning we were all in the pool starting our laps and Brooks showed up a little late. She jumped right in and joined us, completing our happy trio. We did our usual hour long workout and got out of the pool . We were drying off and discussing breakfast options when we heard Fatty McMeanstreak speak up and say “Sergeant? What about punishment for people that were late”?

What. the. hell.

I was incredulous. Brooks has been nothing but kind to Fatty and it was pretty damn obvious what Fatty was up to as Brooks was the only person late this morning. It was high school all over again. She’s a tattletale.

The Sergeant motioned for Brooks to come to the side of the pool and while balancing her legs over the water, do 50 flutter kicks. FIFTY. As soon as she removed Fatty’s knife from her back, she proceeded to do just that. The rest of us stood there in disbelief for a few seconds until another girl piped up that we should join her. Within seconds there were 8 other women down on the cement joining Brooks in her torture while Fatty stood aside and watched. We were laughing and shouting out each painful number, splashing our legs in the water. Even the Sergeants couldn’t help but laugh.

Upon finishing, we all rose on our wobbly legs, red faced and laughing. “That was cool”, I heard the Sergeant remark.

Yes it was cool. You know what that was?

Camaraderie.

Boot Camp, Day 2

I promise not to relive every single day of Boot Camp with you guys, but I would be remiss in not sharing with you this mornings festivities.

Let’s back up a moment. Let me just mention that yesterday morning I had to grab ahold of my bathroom sink and gently lower myself down onto my toilet. I have never been so God-awful sore in my entire life. My abdomen hurt so badly that I could barely move. I could not get in a comfortable position, even lying down. An abrupt sneeze surprised me and I almost blacked out, I swear to God. It was like my whole body seized in pain and froze – in pain and horror over the involuntary movements that a sneeze requires. I’ve never been dragged behind a car, but I bet I know what it feels like afterwards.

So, this morning I gracefully stumble out of bed at 5:00am and prepare for Round 2. I arrive early (God forbid you are late, that’s what they tell me) and I am stunned to discover that all the new recruits are in attendance. Not one dropped out. We switch Sergeants so now my group has Sergeant Numbnuts. NN is small and bald and I think a little bit on the crazy side. I will say that the man has a beautiful voice. That’s right, we sang. He would sing a verse, and we would repeat it. It actually got to be kind of funny, 1. because we were so bad, and 2. because he started making up verses. Heck, it took the focus off of my aching calves and my eyes stinging with my own sweat. It also made me feel very “Private Benjamin”, like I was in a real boot camp, singing all the cool songs with the other soldiers. Let the record show that if I was in a real boot camp, my insides would be on the outside by now and I’d have blood streaming from my eyes. Just sayin’.

We ran. We did jumping jacks. We sprinted. We did more lunges, and more of everything else. One girl quietly asked if she could get her water. She was denied*. Ain’t no crying in boot camp, folks. In between counting, Sarge NN would yell “WAH, WAH, I WANT A DONUT” and “WAH, WAH, I WANT MY SOFT PILLOW”. Which made us chuckle even though we knew he was mocking us.

Finally, the brutal hour came to an end. As a final exercise, we were to circle up and stretch. As he put his right arm up over his head, he bent his elbow and rested his hand on the nape of his neck, to demonstrate the next stretch.

Sarge Numbnuts: *stretching arm over head* “OKAY! Take your right leg and put it behind your head”!!!!!
Us: *blink* *blink*
Sarge Numbnuts: “Whoops! I mean your right arm, holy crap, I’m tired too”!
Us: *giggling*
Me: *yelling out of punch drunk exhaustion* “Sergeant, if I could do that, I wouldn’t be single“!

Sergeant NumbNuts now knows my name.

* In defense of Sergeant NumbNuts, she’s a bit on the whiny side anyway and I suspect she wanted to get her water to get out of more torture for a few minutes. Don’t blame her, either.

For this, I paid money. I am a dolt.

Boot Camp started today. Well, I should say this morning, to the tune of 5:15am. In the dark wet soccer fields behind my gym. They immediately divided us into two groups. Old timers and newbies. All I could think was that some of these morons, uh….people, actually returned for more.

There are two Sergeants. Sergeant LimpDick and Sergeant Numbnuts. I got LimpDick.

Let’s just say that Sergeant LimpDick takes his job very seriously. He gave us a motivational little speech right first thing this morning. By motivational, read: threatening. He also does not seem to possess much of a sense of humor, but more on that later.

There is quite a hodge podge of characters in my group. Women ranging from 20ish to 40ish in age, and all sorts of body types. Morbidly overweight to hard body. Not sure what that hard body bitch was doing there in the first place. Probably just to rub it in our faces.

The first order of business was to run one mile, nonstop. Sarge LimpDick was timing us and shouting “encouragement”, as he put it. Encouragement like “MOVE YOUR BUTTS”and QUIT TALKING AND RUN DAMN IT!!! I am certainly not a runner and I was surprised to see that I completed this in the quicker time percentile. I guess I had a little stamina left over from the 1/2 marathon training. Next came push ups. I have noodles for arms, folks. Plus, by this time I was a little spent. I shook and sweat and swore my way through 10 push ups. My partner completed 12, so I felt okay with that number. After that came sit-ups. She sat on my feet and counted out loud for me. As I came upon number 20, I was shaking pretty hard.

Partner: “C’mon Jen – just a few more”!!
Me: “I am so sorry”.
Partner: “For what”?
Me: “That you are going to have to go to work today with my tennis shoe in your ass”.

*this made the girls near me laugh and giggle and Sarge LimpDick yelled that this was NOT a church social*

So, that part of our hour completed, it was time to WORK OUT. I’m not kidding. That was just a “fitness assessment” of what we’re capable of now, to contrast with our performance at the end of the 6 weeks. The next half hour was derived from some sort of Nazi training manual, I’m sure. We did lunges. The whole way across the soccer field. We did “cherry pickers”, where you squat and grab some grass and then jump as high in the air as you can, like you’re going to attempt a slam dunk. We did thigh and calf kicks. We hit the ground, shot our legs out, did a push up, and back up again. MANY, MANY TIMES. Another fun exercise was where I laid on the ground, facing up and clutching my partners ankles, who remains standing. I then raise my legs up towards her and she pushes them down to the ground. Repeat for two days. Or that’s how it felt, anyway.

Finally it was 6:27am and I saw LimpDick looking at his stopwatch. “Thank God”, I thought. Done. Oh no. LimpDick thought it would be fun for us to run sprints for the next three minutes. I kid you not. One girl started puking. She asked if she could be dismissed to get some water. He said sure and as she started walking away he threw in “You better RUN TO THAT WATER”. So, she kinda loped over to her water, puking over her shoulder. NICE.

So after all was said and done this morning, there were about 10 of us walking to our cars. We were all covered in sweat and mud. I could barely pick my water bottle off of the ground. We were silent. As we approached the parking lot, I muttered “So, ya’ll think Sergeant LimpDick is single”!?!? This managed to generate a laugh. A good laugh, too, because I think all of us were thinking about how we’d kill him if we had a chance. We laughed, and we were victorious.

I came home and laid down in my shower. I went to work. I cannot cross my legs and find it hard to keep them together while I’m walking. I have heard a LOT of jokes about that, today. “Story of your life, huh Jen”? “Oh, like that’s news”! Thanks, guys.

There you have it. My first day of Boot Camp. Only 23 more to go. If I die, I hope it’s at the end of this journey and I totally want an open casket and please bury me in my sports bra to show off MY ROCK HARD ABDOMEN. You know why? Because I will ‘effing deserve it.

I don’t know but I’ve been told…..

As you know I’ve enlisted in a fitness “boot camp” through my gym. Today I had my fitness assessment to determine what shape I’m in, and how I can improve. Also, I had to sign a waiver that mentioned that if I crack any vertebrae or my heart explodes within my chest, I cannot sue them.

I showed up and met David, my fitness-assessment-determining guy. David was very soft spoken and seemed kinda nervous. I assume that’s because I’m so hot. Anyway, he invited me into his office, which smelled like feet. He sat me down in front of his desk and he took all my vital information. Age, current weight, medications, all that business. Then the “testing” began.

First he took my blood pressure. No biggie there. We just sat together avoiding eye contact until the arm band deflated. The results were excellent. Off to a good start!

Next was Body Fat index. I assumed he’d take my weight and my height and do some funky math thing and fill out the little box with my BMI number. Notsomuch. Next thing I know he’s coming at me with TONGS and wants to pinch my muffin top. You know, my love handle, spare tire, whatever you want to call that layer of FAT that hangs over your waistband. He wanted TO PINCH IT AND PULL IT OUT FROM MY BODY. Holy crap. That’s not even the best part. Then he grabbed my jiggly bit on my upper arm and did the same thing. Again on my thigh. Having a complete stranger you just met 5 minutes ago pinch your bare flesh with a pair of tongs is a humbling experience, I’ll tell ya. I was told the “tongs” are called “calipers”. Nice name for a Nazi Torture Device.

David: “Okay, I’m going to go a little deeper here” (pinching my fat roll at my waist)
Me: “Jesus”.
David: “Excuse me”?
Me: “Hey David, I’ve seen some of the folks around here, have you ever had to use the Jaws of Life to measure someone’s BMI”?
David: *blink*
Me: “You know, some of these big mamas in here – they have pendulous rolls of fat. I bet you could stretch it out until you’re in the parking lot”!
David: *silence* *awkwardness*
Me: *suddenly noticing all the Christian paraphanelia in his office like the Keyser Sose moment in The Usual Suspects* “OH. That wasn’t very Christian of me”.
David: “No, it wasn’t”.
Me: “I just meant that ….”
David: “I know what you meant”.

Okay, so maybe Dave and I aren’t going for drinks anytime soon.

Next up – “biceps strength”. I have to stand on a machine that looks like a scale, holding a bar that is tied to the machine and pull up as hard as I can with my biceps for three seconds. I guess the strain on the cord tells David something important. Like, she has noodles for arms.

David: “Okay, you’re just going to pull the cord taut with all your strength. The cord does not expand, so don’t try to stretch it, you’ll only hurt yourself”.
Me: “HA HA! Are you kidding? If I tried that I’d have a load of trouser chili in my shorts”!!
*crickets chirping*

Again, Dave is probably not going to ask me for my phone number at the end of this session.

Next up- Back Flexibility! Oh boy! I get on the floor with a plastic yardstick or some crap between my legs and my heels on some plastic spurs sticking out from the yardsticky thingy, and I have to lean forward as far as I can and stretch my arms out as if I’m trying to touch my toes. So, my forehead is on my knees and I have to stretch my arms and touch the god-forsaken yardstick between them. And hold it. For three seconds.

He gives me a few practice stretches and then tells me to go for it. I do. I hold it. Of course, I’m straining to get as far past my toes that I can. Hubris. It hurts.

David: “Okay, done”!
Me: “puhhhhhhhhhh” *exhaling*
David: “Ooops. The machine didn’t catch it. One more time”.
Me: “Wuh”?
David: “You can do it”!
Me: *straining and shaking and it’s the longest three seconds of my life* FRAP!!

I fart. Just one short, very angry, fart.
Me: “Shit! I mean, I’m sorry. Oh, GOD”.
David: *wincing* “Ah, well. Okay. That’s…..um….that’s that”.

He tells me to put my shoes back on and sit down so that he can print out my results.

As we are waiting for his antiquated printer to slowly print out the color results of my bar chart, I feel compelled to fill the air with my nonsensical nervous chatter.

“So, David – I’m not the worst you’ve seen, right? I mean, I smoked for twenty years, ya know, I mean, I just quit this January. I’ve gained like 15 lbs and that’s why I’m here. I’m going to turn 40 in like 7 months and I want to go into my 40th year kicking ass, you know? I mean, I’ve always been a late bloomer and Oprah says life begins at 50 so I’m 10 years ahead of the game, right? Also, I’ve always been a pretty heavy drinker, but shit, I gave up the brown stuff, and by that I mean Jack Daniel’s, like 4 years ago so that’s progress, right? C’mon, be honest, I’m gonna look like Linda Hamilton in The Terminator when this over, right”!?!?!

David: “I’m going to tell Sargeant Walker to give you special treatment. He’s going to LOVE you”.

See? Everything is going to be fine. I’m going to get special treatment!

G.I. Jen

It’s been well chronicled in this blog that I’ve gained a little weight since quitting the smokes in January. I managed to hold the pounds off as I trained and completed a half marathon in April. After that, however, I was so bitter regarding exercise that I practically aborted all forms and the lbs piled on. 10-15 of them. Bastards.

I’ve been going to the gym and eating a lot of cottage cheese. Nothing is really working. I lack the discipline and willpower to really get serious. I lose two pounds, then gain back three. Lose 5 pounds, gain back 4. Stupid.

I was at the gym the other morning when I saw a sign on the wall advertising a 6 week course called “Boot Camp”. Aha! This sounds exactly like what I need. Motivation! It is an additional $100 on top of my gym membership. I figure the money alone will give me extra incentive to attend.

They meet M-W-F mornings at 5:30am and 7:00am on Saturdays. I have an appointment with a personal trainer for a fitness assessment where they measure your aptitude and go over your goals. My goals right now are to not appear in profile as a marsupial, and to not develop (as my Mother calls them) “bingo arms”. You know how old ladies’ upper arms tend to get a bit jiggly? Mine are not jiggly, but they are pretty damn far from say, “firm”. Humph.

As I was leaving I approached the counter to ask my friend Stella about the details.

Me: “Hey Stella, what’s up with this Boot Camp class”?
Stella: “Gurl. It works! I’ve seen some real changes in the folks that did the first one.”
Me: “Really”?
Stella: “Oh yeah, I wish we’d taken some before and after snapshots”.
Me: “Sign me up”.

I gave her a check and headed to the door to leave. “Hey, Jen” she yelled. “Check out the Boot Camp pictures on the bulletin board before you leave”. I turned around and followed her finger to the opposite wall where I could see a grouping of Polaroid photos. I went over to check them out.

Okay, I realize that the class is called “Boot Camp”, that should have been my first clue, correct? After all, it is not called “Sit On Your Ass and Have a Martini” camp. I have attended that camp all summer. I still wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw.

Oh. My. GOD. (insert sinking stomach feeling here)

I squinted my eyes and leaned forward, making sure I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing. People crawling on their elbows and stomachs under wire. People collapsing after climbing ropes. People doing lunges in the dark before the sun has risen. People CARRYING other people across their shoulders running through a creek.

Oh, no.

I spun on my heel back towards the counter and screamed to Stella, “RIP UP THAT CHECK”!
She threw her head back and laughed diabolically.

I may go AWOL after the first class.