As the weather gets warmer and clothes get, well…smaller, I decided it was time to get into shape for summer. Nothwithstanding the knowledge that unless you’re 12, with the tone and definition of youth, AND you can lose 10 pounds on a 3-day juice cleanse, summer is, admittedly, a bit late to get in shape for summer. But optimistically ignoring the fact that I should have started in June 2012 to be in shape for June 2013, I posted my Workout Schedule on the fridge, where I’d be most likely to see it several times a day.
Then Kenny mentioned an article he’d recently read where experts recommend that since muscle weighs more than fat, you should measure your trouble spots and repeat every few weeks so you know you’re getting smaller, even if the scale doesn’t budge. Um, okay.
Following the example chart from Kenny’s
stupid helpful article, I got out a piece of paper and listed “Arms, Chest, Waist, Abdomen, Butt, and Thighs,” with spaces for starting data. As I stared at the list, my first thought was “Not. Gonna. Happen.” There is simply no way in hell I’m listing the inch width of every latitude on my body. Ever. If I WANTED those numbers written down for perpetuity, I’d join a weight loss group that posted your digits on their in-house bulletin board or, God forbid, Facebook (“Gee, look what SHE did! She was HUUGE, and now, because of us, her husband loves her again!”)
So carrying on blind, with no idea of my starting (or ending) point, I made a commitment to JUST DO IT at least 3 times a week and see what happened. Hopping up on my elliptical trainer for 30 minutes a day, followed by free weights for the arms, I was feeling, if not thinner, at least a little stronger after the first couple of weeks.
Kenny commented over breakfast that I seemed more committed than on the 789 earlier attempts I’d made over the years to get into shape (okay, I’m paraphrasing, but that’s what he meant). Without thinking, I replied that I was motivated by a desire to be “more dateable.” He promptly spit his coffee across the room and shouted, “WHAT??”
As I was scrambling to explain that I simply meant that I wanted to get back into the shape I was in when we were dating (a little more Phase 1 and a little less married-with-grandchildren), he stood up, with all his God-given testosterone, and roared, “I don’t care what you want. My wife DOES NOT DATE!!” (Geez, I said “dateable,” not “marketable.” I thought it sounded better. Apparently it’s a subjective distinction.)
Calmed Hubs down and sent him to the store for goodies for our late Saturday morning breakfast, so I decided to get in a quick workout while he was gone (a preemptive, and admittedly failed strike on the giant cinnamon roll I was going be snarfing down in about 45 minutes).
Half an hour later, feeling all pumped and buffed (middle-age speak for “less old and stiff”), I laid on my back over a large exercise ball for a fabulous spine stretch. As I tried to get up, however, it became immediately obvious that I should have worn sneakers, as my fluffy socks started skidding on the hardwood, faster and faster, trying unsuccessfully for traction, until I looked like Scooby Doo, running frantically in place but going NOWHERE, as the ball rolled out from underneath me, then shot backwards, smacking into the ironing board, knocking it over and taking out the entire surface contents of my desk. SERIOUSLY??
Kenny walked in the door to find me in an undignified sprawl on the floor, with half my office lying on top of me and the other half spread out in all four corners of the room. “For God’s sake, woman,” he sighed, “I just went out for MILK!!”
Experts also say that walking is actually the best form of exercise. Maybe I should try that instead. I figure I can have that cinnamon roll burned off about the time I reach Montana.