Happy Cinco de Mayo!! Go eat some great tex-mex for me - we'll probably be celebrating with doritos and clam dip.
In the past month, I’ve started a workout program. It’s along the lines of p90x, and though different, similarly allows me the courtesy of sweating my gut out in the comfort of my own space, namely our cabin in the woods. I can’t imagine performing such physically grotesque movements within a quarter-mile radius of anyone who could possibly see in my windows. It would be entirely unbecoming.
On the first day of this regimen, I took a “fit test”. It should have been called a walrus test, because the manner in which I found myself heaving on the floor could only be described in such terms. I was alone in the house, and it was still embarrassing. The cat was watching me through her loathing, narrow eye slits. I could tell. Even she was mortified.
The first month of training consists primarily of intense intervals of plyometrics disguised in the cover of a cardio workout. It's relentless. Even in the rare 30-second breaks, the text rolling across the screen reminds you:
Do not….stop…..moving…,
and the instructor is commanding you to “get some water! You’ve got ten seconds! You’re gonna need it!!”
I’ll get some water all right. I'll get it deep enough to drown your chiseled, perfect body in.
Ironically, this devilish dance known as the fit test is actually a wonderful and ingenious tool. By tracking the number of particular exercises I could (or rather, couldn’t) perform in 60 seconds, I was able, two weeks later, to easily see the progress I’d made. Very un–walrus-like progress, by the way.
A few years ago, C and I began using a new phrase to describe losing weight and/or developing muscle mass. There was a radio commercial on WFAN [I think] that featured a man and woman in conversation about their recent effort to get in shape. All of a sudden, the woman starts screaming in shock, “My butt!! My butt is on the front lawn!!” As in, her bottom had been fit-tested right off her body, and onto the Bermuda grass. Ever since hearing it, C and I have employed this phrase frequently and with glee.
Is your butt on the front lawn??
Translation: Have you lost weight?
I drew this for you. You're welcome.
No one needs to be actively exercising for us to ask, either. We just like the way it sounds.
Well, any significant change is yet to be discovered, and I'm not sure if I've dropped any derriere on the grass, but I do know I've left behind gallons of sweat, some seriously maniacal laughter, and a good amount of infantile tears. My next fit test is Monday, and I’m already nervous. I know that walrus is itching to get back in the game, and if you know me, you’re aware that my self-discipline runs at a continuous all-time-low.
Let the battle begin.
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