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Blogging counts as exercise, right?

At this time last year, I was on my way to gettin’ ripped. I was slathering myself with baby oil and doing dead lifts on a daily basis. Okay, that last part may have been an exaggeration, but I was working out with a trainer once a week and eating healthy foods.

Pro female bodybuilder Nikki Fuller performs a...

Not me. You know, in case you were confused. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Last summer, I would go to restaurants with Husband and ask them to substitute cottage cheese for the fries. I paid twice the price of normal bread for fancy whole wheat bread. About three times a week, I went to the gym and worked out until my muscles trembled. For the first time in my life, I was able to run for more than 30 seconds without feeling nauseous. When people started talking about exercising, I actually had something to contribute, rather than listening awkwardly, as I had previously always done.

I wasn’t exactly looking different, but I felt stronger. Husband was amazed that I could push his new snowblower and that I could help him lift an engine without struggling.

Then school started again. And with that, came the time commitment of marching band.

At first, I was convinced I would continue my new lifestyle. I knew it wouldn’t be as easy as when I was on summer break, but I tried. I packed my workout bag the night before and brought it with me in the mornings. After school, I went to the gym instead of driving past the exit toward my house, and my beloved bed. I took the extra 10 minutes to change clothes, take off my jewelry, and put my hair up before working out.

Finally, I would get home, about 12 hours after leaving in the morning.

“What’s for dinner?” Husband would ask. “I’m starving.”

I would like to say that I whipped up a healthy dinner full of vegetables, whole grains, and lean meat, but by this point, I was beyond exhausted. So, the processed foods started creeping back into my diet. Gradually, the evenings at the gym became further apart. I told myself it was because my life was consumed with teaching band, and once marching season was over, I’d be back with a vengeance.

November came, and I hit the gym every day abandoned it completely. By March of this year, I hadn’t been there in five months. Husband finally started to demand that I cancel the membership because it was a waste of money. I put it off because canceling seemed like conceding that I was giving up. I told myself that once summer began, I would have the time and energy to restart.

Last week, I decided to see how out of shape I was. When I was working with the trainer, I could do about 20 consecutive push-ups. So, I got on the floor and braced myself.

Urrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhh!

I could barely lift my 100 pound frame one time. Apparently, I’m 20 times weaker than I was last July. And what did I have to eat yesterday? Pizza for lunch and Madagascar-shaped mac and cheese for dinner.

When school started last year, I finally had something interesting to say for What I Did Over The Summer. Somehow, I don’t think “I blogged and drank a lot of overly sugared coffee” will have the same effect this year.

I guess I’m just not a true Amurrrican.

 

I was born and raised in a Midwest state where sports are everything. Unless you could talk team winning records, knew football plays, owned at least three jerseys, or at least hosted Super Bowl parties, you were nobody. In sixth grade, I even stooped as low as to be a cheerleader with the hopes of fitting in. All that got me was a really awkward team picture and a case of low self-esteem when I didn’t make it the next year.

I’ve always been a natural born band geek. My idea of a fun evening in high school was to learn all of my major scales in two octaves by ear.

…I mean…no I didn’t. That would be REALLY nerdy. Anyway.

Because of my musical obsession and massive apathy of all things athletically related in my home, I never learned the slightest thing about any sport. Even after being on the eighth grade basketball team, I couldn’t tell you anything more about basketball than “you shoot for the hoop.” And pass the ball. And run a lot. I still have no idea why I got to shoot foul shots in the one game when I got more than 30 seconds of playing time. Something about a foul. Yeah.

By some sort of magical happening, I ended up marrying the only man to walk this earth who is as apathetic about sports as myself. It’s freaking fantastic. When other guys are glued to their televisions, eating cheesy poofs and shouting obscenities, mine just wants to curl on the couch and watch Renovation Realities.

A normal conversation between Husband and Typical Jock Dude goes like this:

TJD: Man that drama with Tressel is crazy. It’s a bunch of bull. Where are the Bucks gonna be next year?

Husband: What’s a Tressel?

TJD: Seriously? I’m talking about the Bucks, bro.

Husband: Oh, yeah. We’ve been having problems with deer on our road, too.

TJD: Uhhhhh…let’s just drink beer.

This brings me to my next subject. People around here are nucking futs about The Ohio State University. I’m pretty sure there’s an Ohio law that says you can be executed for leaving out the “The” in the name. It’s common practice to buy a grey car just so you can pimp it out with scarlet decorations, buckeye leaves, and bobbleheads of Brutus the Buckeye. It doesn’t even end in death:

I’m just going to set this right here for your viewing pleasure. (Source osu.edu / Juli Miracle)

I guess my point is that I just don’t get it. The rules, or even basic concepts, of sports escape me. I spent my first season as a high school band director trying to figure out what downs were. Now, I don’t judge anyone. I’m always happy for our high school team when they win a game and I support band kids who play a sport. I just have no idea why our crowd is cheering most of the time. I’ve learned that if I cheer along, I look like I know what’s happening. As long as I know the words to “Hang On Sloopy” and I can answer “OH!” with an “IO!” I will avoid excommunication from the state of Ohio.

So, carry on, you sports fans. And hit the showers, before I smack you with a wet towel. I’ve got to practice my scales.