Boy, Am I Feeling Old[er]

I thought about taking this morning to address the fact that fewer than five people have looked at our [for sale] home down south since the first of the year, but then I thought, hey – people don’t need to start today with a scowl. 

Or strained, depressing laughter.

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Remember when we were young and svelte? 

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I love this.  Are we out of our minds?!  Oh, of course McDonald's wants kids to be fit.  My bad.

Can you recall the days when our miniature bodies could flex and bend into back walk-overs or be launched effortlessly over the bar of a high jump?  Even more impressive was the ability to spend a day hiking or skiing or even roller-skating without waking up the next morning unable to sit up in bed.  These days I'm lucky if only my back is sore when I creep out from under the covers, and I feel like a champion if I can jog to and from the car at the gas station without getting winded. 

When my sister and I were young, we were quite the athletic display.  When I say this, I mean that we were the embodiment of one concept (athleticism) applied to two startlingly different cases.  Renee was lean and graceful; I was stocky and awkward.  Starting in middle school, she competed in track and field’s 110-meter hurdles and the high jump – events generally performed by light, agile competitors.  I didn’t run, jump, or move more than ten feet in any direction - I threw things.  At the local ski hill, Renee would don a feminine, belted, rose-colored suit.  My outfit was an asymmetrical smattering of safety yellow, neon orange, lime green and reflective silver trapezoids, not unlike a hazmat suit crossed with an emergency space blanket (on a positive note, my mom could see me running into mesh fencing and hitting metal poles while sipping coffee on the base lodge deck).  Renee could pull off leggings and a side ponytail.  I spent 6^th grade wearing sweatpants and rastafari Tweety Bird shirts.  If you’re a praying person, thank the Maker that your child has not followed in such dangerous footsteps.  This phase of life was awkward, physically straining, and grossly unbecoming.  And that’s only the material reality.  My mind was turtle soup. 

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Although I lacked all grace and any beauty, I still marvel at the way that I was able to 1) maintain physical stamina through hikes, bikes and jog-a-thons, 2) recover from said activities with no fatigue or muscle pain, and 3) do splits.  What I wouldn’t give to be able to do one of those or a set of inverted push-ups right now. 

As I continue in my spring work-out venture, I am constantly (painfully, repeatedly, embarrassingly) reminded that I am no longer a child.  I know, I know – I’m only 27 – but I’m telling you, my twenty-seven year-old body feels pretty far from the functional frame of my youth, and it only seems to be getting farther with each year.

On the plus side, at least I’m wearing sweatpants less often.  And as a grownup, no one can make me get back into that ski suit.

I'm Not Sweating; My Muscles Are Crying

Happy Cinco de Mayo!!  Go eat some great tex-mex for me - we'll probably be celebrating with  doritos and clam dip.

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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.