Looking, Um, Good.
I've been pretty annoyed since the drag queen episode here at the shop last night. You would think with this upcoming terrifying election, the flattening of half of America by storms and the impending economic, social and fiscal collapse of the world as we know it, I'd be thinking of something else besides me. Yeah, um, no. Not right at the moment, anyway. I had my chance to be all political today, I've made all my ranty posts on all the pundit pages for the day and now I want to shove my head up my own ass for a few hours. It's warm in there.
I'm hitting mid-30s now, and for those of you who are there, you know what starts to happen, even to those of us who haven't bred. I'm through with denial about it these days, so I make it a point to get some regular conditioning. However, with the recent move from Chicago to Champaign, and all the chaos and upheaval and dissaray that accompanied it, I really let things go. Seriously. And it's not like it used to be, where I could screw off for a few months and then do two pushups and look like Ms. Universe. Nah, it's a lot of work these days to keep it up, and it all goes to shit in seconds. Seriously, I go to bed now and my ass is three inches lower than where I left it the night before. So after a good month or two of slacking, eating crap and not even knowing where my socks were, much less being able to locate a set of weights, I became the mayor of Mushytown.
I'm not a big fan of working out, in fact I effing hate it. But what I hate more is what happens when I don't do it. And I've been through a whole slew of pieces of equipment. Once upon a time, yours truly was married to a fat guy who watched a lot of TV. When he would see some piece of equipment, he figured that was the answer to all his problems, and he would snake my credit card and order it. It would come, he would use it twice and be back on the couch watching TV. I would step in and start using the thing because a.) it was purchased with my money without my consent, b.) I would be vaccuuming around it for God knows how long, and c.) I felt I had to prove a point about how easy this stuff was to do, even for a little weakling like myself. I liked the Total Gym, that's the one endorsed by Chuck Norris. And we all know that Chuck is a killing machine, so I figured I would also be a killing machine by proxy.
No dice, but I did get some nice results. However, it required a lot of time, of which I had none, so the Total Gym became a coat roack before going to the great big Craigslist in the sky.
Next was a monster weight cage. I'm a fan of weights, but there are a few problems that make it tough to do without help. My general puniness, arthritic hands and a lower back that is destroyed from years of hunching over tattoos and the drawing table makes picking up plates a nightmare. Once the plates are on the bar, I can lift like a mofo. I'm not bragging, but for a little twerp I'm actually pretty strong. At the age of 17 and about 110 pounds I was doing 425 lb leg presses in gym class, much to the shock of our awesomely dikey teacher. Flash forward to the end of my 20s and I'm in the basement alone trying to pick up a 25 pound plate off the bottom of the rack. Wasn't happening. After throwing out my back and then dropping the thing on my toes, that was that. And of course, my ex was sititing on the couch laughing, until he realized I was really hurt. Then he laughed harder.
So, then came the Gazelle. Personally, I'd like to punch Tony Little in the face. You know who I'm talking about.
However, the Gazelle is a great machine. No impact, no strain, and I was regularly doing the dreaded cardio that I need. Cardio bores the hell out of me,so it's hard to get me to do it. We had a treadmill once upon a time, that was the very first piece of equipment to litter the landscape in our home, and it took an act of Congress to get me on it. Despite the fact that it was parked in front of the TV, I'd still go nuts because I also hate television. My ex would watch a lot of sports, which is like taking vegetable peelers to my eyeballs while ear-fucking me with a pencil. So forget about even getting me on that stupid thing. The treadmill, after a brief career as a clothes rack, disappeared. But I digress. Things were a little better with the Gazelle, we had moved out of our apartment into a two-story house, we had more than one TV, so I was left alone to Gazelle in the basement in peace. I figured out pretty quickly with the Gazelle that I could watch a DVD of my choosing, and I'd be perfectly happy to do my cardio. The only problem was, I'd find myself getting so engrossed in the movie that I'd be slowing down so I could hear better and concentrate more. So I was doing a half-assed workout, not even breaking a sweat, and the Gazelle soon followed the long funeral procession of equipment onto Craigslist.
I finally figured out that I do best with someone telling me what to do to keep me from losing focus. I don't have the money for a personal trainer, nor will I go to a gym. Too many assholes mentally masturbating in front of the mirrors as they blast their quads. No, thanks. So I started going through workout DVDs. Most of them are pretty good and I stick to it, it requires no equipment and I can take them anywhere, and that's been the best part of all. Really, though, the most motivating factor to any of them is my seething hatred. Every one of those things are hosted by some chirpy, bleach-blonde with squared-off white acrylic nails who is five minutes in the tanning bed short of melanoma. These women smile too much, their teeth are way too perfect and they seem to think the sun rises over the crest of their perfectly toned buttocks. So, in all my surliness, I get hostile over the superiority complex I believe they're displaying, and I refuse to let them get the best of me. I follow the routines closely, cursing them and mocking them as I sweat. Hey, if it's hatred that motivates me, I say do it.
The latest one to land in my hands is Turbo Jam. I do not exaggerate when I say this offers an ass-kicking second to none. You know that little muscle that crosses over your shin? Yeah, there is one, look it up. I can actually see mine, and flex it, and it is sore all the gawl-dang time. Holy crap. I hurt in places I did not think it was healthy to hurt. Let me show you a bit of this. Heaven knows why this woman opted to put herself on You Tube doing this stuff, but I assure you, her ears are sweating from this.
It's been about 3 weeks and I've dropped 2 inches from my waist. And believe me, I'm not applying myself as hard as I could in the rest of the arenas of life. I ate deep-fried wings when I got here, and I've been eating home-made apple pie with ice cream every night at home this week. I rule in the kitchen, but that's another rant. I imagine I'd really be kicking ass if I gave up half of the crap I like to eat. Fries don't disappear from my system like they used to, a weekend of tasty gorging sticks around a lot longer than it used to. If only there was a way to make me start hating food. I'll hire some chirpy blonde with white acylic nails and a deep tan to follow me to restaurants. She can stand there and eat celery sticks while I have my six pounds of pasta, and the whole time she can talk shit to me. I will get so angry I will pummel her within an inch of her life, burning mass calories and toning my upper arms in the process. Then the management of the restaurant will toss me out on my ass so I don't finish the pasta, conserving the calories. Problem solved!
I'm hitting mid-30s now, and for those of you who are there, you know what starts to happen, even to those of us who haven't bred. I'm through with denial about it these days, so I make it a point to get some regular conditioning. However, with the recent move from Chicago to Champaign, and all the chaos and upheaval and dissaray that accompanied it, I really let things go. Seriously. And it's not like it used to be, where I could screw off for a few months and then do two pushups and look like Ms. Universe. Nah, it's a lot of work these days to keep it up, and it all goes to shit in seconds. Seriously, I go to bed now and my ass is three inches lower than where I left it the night before. So after a good month or two of slacking, eating crap and not even knowing where my socks were, much less being able to locate a set of weights, I became the mayor of Mushytown.
I'm not a big fan of working out, in fact I effing hate it. But what I hate more is what happens when I don't do it. And I've been through a whole slew of pieces of equipment. Once upon a time, yours truly was married to a fat guy who watched a lot of TV. When he would see some piece of equipment, he figured that was the answer to all his problems, and he would snake my credit card and order it. It would come, he would use it twice and be back on the couch watching TV. I would step in and start using the thing because a.) it was purchased with my money without my consent, b.) I would be vaccuuming around it for God knows how long, and c.) I felt I had to prove a point about how easy this stuff was to do, even for a little weakling like myself. I liked the Total Gym, that's the one endorsed by Chuck Norris. And we all know that Chuck is a killing machine, so I figured I would also be a killing machine by proxy.
Click to viewNo dice, but I did get some nice results. However, it required a lot of time, of which I had none, so the Total Gym became a coat roack before going to the great big Craigslist in the sky.
Next was a monster weight cage. I'm a fan of weights, but there are a few problems that make it tough to do without help. My general puniness, arthritic hands and a lower back that is destroyed from years of hunching over tattoos and the drawing table makes picking up plates a nightmare. Once the plates are on the bar, I can lift like a mofo. I'm not bragging, but for a little twerp I'm actually pretty strong. At the age of 17 and about 110 pounds I was doing 425 lb leg presses in gym class, much to the shock of our awesomely dikey teacher. Flash forward to the end of my 20s and I'm in the basement alone trying to pick up a 25 pound plate off the bottom of the rack. Wasn't happening. After throwing out my back and then dropping the thing on my toes, that was that. And of course, my ex was sititing on the couch laughing, until he realized I was really hurt. Then he laughed harder.
So, then came the Gazelle. Personally, I'd like to punch Tony Little in the face. You know who I'm talking about.
However, the Gazelle is a great machine. No impact, no strain, and I was regularly doing the dreaded cardio that I need. Cardio bores the hell out of me,so it's hard to get me to do it. We had a treadmill once upon a time, that was the very first piece of equipment to litter the landscape in our home, and it took an act of Congress to get me on it. Despite the fact that it was parked in front of the TV, I'd still go nuts because I also hate television. My ex would watch a lot of sports, which is like taking vegetable peelers to my eyeballs while ear-fucking me with a pencil. So forget about even getting me on that stupid thing. The treadmill, after a brief career as a clothes rack, disappeared. But I digress. Things were a little better with the Gazelle, we had moved out of our apartment into a two-story house, we had more than one TV, so I was left alone to Gazelle in the basement in peace. I figured out pretty quickly with the Gazelle that I could watch a DVD of my choosing, and I'd be perfectly happy to do my cardio. The only problem was, I'd find myself getting so engrossed in the movie that I'd be slowing down so I could hear better and concentrate more. So I was doing a half-assed workout, not even breaking a sweat, and the Gazelle soon followed the long funeral procession of equipment onto Craigslist.
I finally figured out that I do best with someone telling me what to do to keep me from losing focus. I don't have the money for a personal trainer, nor will I go to a gym. Too many assholes mentally masturbating in front of the mirrors as they blast their quads. No, thanks. So I started going through workout DVDs. Most of them are pretty good and I stick to it, it requires no equipment and I can take them anywhere, and that's been the best part of all. Really, though, the most motivating factor to any of them is my seething hatred. Every one of those things are hosted by some chirpy, bleach-blonde with squared-off white acrylic nails who is five minutes in the tanning bed short of melanoma. These women smile too much, their teeth are way too perfect and they seem to think the sun rises over the crest of their perfectly toned buttocks. So, in all my surliness, I get hostile over the superiority complex I believe they're displaying, and I refuse to let them get the best of me. I follow the routines closely, cursing them and mocking them as I sweat. Hey, if it's hatred that motivates me, I say do it.
The latest one to land in my hands is Turbo Jam. I do not exaggerate when I say this offers an ass-kicking second to none. You know that little muscle that crosses over your shin? Yeah, there is one, look it up. I can actually see mine, and flex it, and it is sore all the gawl-dang time. Holy crap. I hurt in places I did not think it was healthy to hurt. Let me show you a bit of this. Heaven knows why this woman opted to put herself on You Tube doing this stuff, but I assure you, her ears are sweating from this.
It's been about 3 weeks and I've dropped 2 inches from my waist. And believe me, I'm not applying myself as hard as I could in the rest of the arenas of life. I ate deep-fried wings when I got here, and I've been eating home-made apple pie with ice cream every night at home this week. I rule in the kitchen, but that's another rant. I imagine I'd really be kicking ass if I gave up half of the crap I like to eat. Fries don't disappear from my system like they used to, a weekend of tasty gorging sticks around a lot longer than it used to. If only there was a way to make me start hating food. I'll hire some chirpy blonde with white acylic nails and a deep tan to follow me to restaurants. She can stand there and eat celery sticks while I have my six pounds of pasta, and the whole time she can talk shit to me. I will get so angry I will pummel her within an inch of her life, burning mass calories and toning my upper arms in the process. Then the management of the restaurant will toss me out on my ass so I don't finish the pasta, conserving the calories. Problem solved!