Being a writer has not only given me a shelf to put my books on, but also a "shelf" to rest my arms on. This new career is not only changing my life, but my body as well. I do try to exercise (see blog on treadmill vs. yoga mat – a near death experience), but when the thermometer is inching over the 100 degree mark, I have a tendency to stay inside and watch exercise videos…usually with a bowl of popcorn.
But a dear friend of mine recently suffered a heart attack at an early age. This got all of us in our social group thinking and re-evaluating. So, I'm making an earnest effort to try and shed the fifteen pounds between my boobs and waistline. Hopefully the rest of the fat cells will get the same idea and start melting away.
First up, exercise gear, aka "the lycra outfit." Of course in my delusional mind, I honestly believe I can still wear this "suit of surprise." The pants slide on, with much effort, rounding my "cheeks" and settling tightly around my torso. *Note to self: Start tanning. "White fat" looks too much like whale blubber. Certainly cellulite covered in a golden sheen appears thinner than the Michelin Tire image staring back at me from the mirror.
Next up, the sports bra. Yep, the closest thing to an "iron death grip" I'm about to lasso Thelma and Louise into. It's an ugly battle. Neither of the "sisters" want to be trapped and fight for freedom. I get one tucked away and the other literally zips under my arm and around the back to hide. Drenched in sweat, I finally corral my "endowments" and step in front of the mirror to take inventory.
I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or just scream. The "twins" are now quadruplets! Luckily, the "panic buttons" are covered, but Thelma A is bulging out the side, while Thelma B is nestled under my chin, pushing my mouth into a wiggly corkscrew. Louise A won't be upstaged and is doing her best to keep my left arm from falling to my side while Louise B is taking "swollen glands" to whole new perspective, cutting off my air supply. I can barely see my feet to put on my shoes. When I step down, the rubber soles literally crack under pressure.
I head for the treadmill. When I step on the track, I swear "Mr. Nordic" groans. Kindle is set at a font size large enough for me to see through the one eye not squeezed shut by a pound of flesh, giving me approximately 5 words per page. I push the headphones deep into the ear canal to insure early hearing loss, and set my iPod to the exercise playlist – which consists of heavy drumbeats and explicit language. I hit START.
Did I fail to mention that after 'birthin' four babies Miss Scarlet', "bladder control" is ancient history? Add a couple chocolate layered pounds and a knock-kneed attempt to run the "track of death," and my scheduled one hour workout is cut drastically short. My jogging routine takes on a sense of urgency as I race to the smallest room of the house while deciding "now" is good time to resurrect those long forgotten kegel muscles.
Here's a fact worth considering. Men are supposed to drink four liters of water a day, and women three liters. Yep, that's a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke with a nipple, and a 1-liter bottle of Fuji water – all consumed "pre-workout." We're talking possible tsunami conditions and the ultimate test of "moisture wick" fabric.
Luckily, I arrive at my destination without a nano-second to spare, but the dog will probably walk with a permanent limp. He's now learned the command "move!" and answers to different, slightly off-colored, name. As for my extra "baggage?" There may be a permanent bond, at least until I can afford new exercise attire. Wonder what the "Tent & Awning" store has in stock?
Have a great Wednesday, and try not to get too wacky. Thanks for stopping by and keeping me company. I'm kind of lonely without the gang hanging out here any more. Just Joelene