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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.

Seriously. I can’t even make up this stuff.

I’ll make this one short to make up for how long yesterday’s was. (Thaaaaaat’swhatshesaid?)

This is another one of those “only in my life” sort of stories, similar to yesterday’s post about the Golden Corral.

So, yesterday I was on my way to the gym for my second session with my trainer, Barry. I have to drive through a section of the freeway which has been Construction Zone Hell for the last few months – concrete walls, orange barrels, approximately 15 feet in which oncoming cars get to merge, the whole shebang. There’s an SUV to my left and a concrete wall to my right. I’m cruising along, enjoying the sounds of 90s alternative rock, thanks to my new favorite station.

Suddenly, the wind picked up.

They Ain't So Tough..

They Ain’t So Tough.. (Photo credit: Mr. Ducke)

You see that mashed-up orange barrel? One that looked identical to that began blowing into the road in front of me, rolling over itself like a plastic tumbleweed.

I’m going to get a little cliche with you now, so just bear with me. It was like a slow-motion scene in a movie. You see, I have a car that isn’t quite three years old, yet. I’m a very cautious person and I’ve never let anything happen to my precious car. (Yeah – you with the runaway grocery cart. I keel you.) So, I panicked.

I couldn’t go left, due to the SUV and as I said, there was a concrete wall to my right.

Horrified by the bailout.

(Photo credit: cdresz)

I’m going to hit it, I accepted. There’s no way around it.I hit the brakes to lessen the speed of impact. I even swerved a little, so I wouldn’t hit it completely head-on.

After what seemed like five minutes of scrunching my eyes and white-knuckling my steering wheel, I finally heard it.

BAM.

I seriously thought I was going to puke. Images of the cavernous dent in the front of my car filled my mind. My hands shook furiously. I wondered who I would have to call to sue the State of  Ohio for their clearly incompetent workers, who would allow a barrel to just float across a busy stretch of highway. By the time I got to the gym, I was surprised that I had even made it there, since obviously the front of my car had been reduced to scrap metal.

I got out and squatted to examine the damage, with a pit in my stomach.

No dent. Seriously?? There were some globs of grease smeared on the bumper, and maybe some slight scuffs of the paint underneath, but no substantial damage to be seen.

So, amazingly enough, nothing really happened. In about 30 minutes, I’ll be driving through that same construction zone on my way to work. Do you think anyone would judge me if I attached a snow plow to the front of my compact car?

Barry White is going to get me ripped, even if it kills me

Let’s travel in time to this past Saturday, shall we? My work-out buddy (hereby known as E, until I decide a better moniker for her) and I had our initial session with our new trainer, Heather. E and I got to the gym right on time for our 12 pm appointment, and waited. And waited. Heather finally decided to stroll toward our table around 12:10, plopped into her chair open-legged, and began talking with absolutely no introduction.

“Mbghio bfji rghio gthjiob tihhjri. Bdfijiti bhi ghign?”

That’s all I heard for two reasons.

You know those girls who make you do a double-take when they talk because their voice sounds like Barry White?

Barry White show 03

Barry White show 03 (Photo credit: Luiz Fernando / Sonia Maria)

The second reason is that she was mumbling in her muffled baritone toward the table. No eye contact. Something about metabolism, and water, and what do I eat. I answered her in my usual intelligent manner, making eye contact with the side of her face:

“Uhhh…I used to eat bad stuff….like…fried stuff and whatever, but now I eat good stuff, like fruits and vegetables, and like, turkey and stuff.” Man. I should really think about going into the nutrition field if this teaching thing doesn’t work out.

This intelligent exchange continued for the next five minutes or so, as Heather muttered into the table and shoved papers toward us to sign. I started to wonder if she would notice if I started answering her questions using only Barry White song titles since she seemed so uninterested in my answers.

Heather: So, what are your goals?

Me: Staying Power.

Heather: Have you had a trainer before?

Me: You’re The First, The Last, My Everything.

Heather: Do you have any specific areas on which you’d like to focus?

Me: Honey Please Can’t Ya See? You See The Trouble With Me.

Heather: Ok, we’re gonna go over here so I can measure you.

Me: I’ll Do For You Anything You Want Me To.

On Tuesday, it was time for our first workout. Heather led us to a corner of the gym and adjusted her package demonstrated the leg circuit for us. After the third time through it, there was a nuclear war happening in my thighs. She wanted us to do it ONE MORE TIME.

Since I’m paying for this, I want to give it my all. I’m not giving up. (Never, Never Gonna Give Ya Up) I powered through the fourth time, huffing and puffing, wiping my nose on my shirt sleeve, then dropping the kettlebell to the floor and guzzling water. My heart rate was somewhere in the 340 range. That may have been slightly exaggerated.

We started to walk toward the bench press and I was feeling like a champ. I made it! My 11-inch thighs are gonna be ripped!

Then, things started looking a little strange.

White spots filled my vision. Stomach churned. Room was spinning.

Great. Instead of impressing Barr…Heather with my outstanding endurance, I’m now sitting on a bench, breathing deeply and wondering if she would crush my head between her thighs if I puked right here. I’ve always been good at first impressions.

“You ok?” (What Am I Gonna Do With You) “You’d better take a walk.” (Baby, We Better Try To Get It Together)

Three days later, my legs are still sore. Barry’s on a mission to kill me, but if it gets me ripped, I can handle it. Just don’t expect me to look like one of those female bodybuilders. I haven’t had time to stock my baby oil supply
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