Sep 06 2006
Sorry I haven’t been around. My thighs caught on fire.
I know I said I was going to post this weekend. Maybe I said something about finding two brain cells to rub together. I can’t remember exactly. Evidently, I couldn’t find two brain cells to rub, so there you have it.
The truth is I’ve been busy. I’ve decided the weight Must. Come. Off. NOW! So I’m all into the exercise thing. Thanks to Ronald McDonald. What, you don’t take all your fitness advice from Ronald?
My husband brought home a DVD that he received free at McDonald’s. He ordered a salad and yogurt parfait and they handed him this lovely yoga DVD. People like me who order cheeseburgers get only scornful looks - we never get yoga DVDs. But Bill got one and he brought it home to me.
Since I take all my health and nutrition advice from McDonald’s, I gave it a try. Well, the three little girls and I together gave it a try. Honestly, though, the little one didn’t try very hard. Or else maybe she tried to sabotage my ability to hold a downward dog by climbing my thigh like it was a tree trunk. Most of the time she just ran around shouting “Yoga, yoga, yoga!” If I would have wrapped a white sheet around her and handed her a longneck bottle of Bud, people might have thought she was John Belushi reincarnated.
The four year old participates, but her main goal of being there is that she is the yoga KGB. She will watch me like a fucking hawk. “Mom! Your eyes aren’t closed. The yoga lady said to close your eyes. Mom! Your arms are supposed to be like this. You’re doing it wrong. Mom, the yoga lady is already done with that one and now she’s doing this one. You’re going too slow, Mom.” Four year olds are pernicious task masters.
Even so, I think I’m liking this yoga thing. Just a simple 15 minute routine. I can choose which type of workout (flexibility, stress relief, etc.) and what level of complexity. I liked it so much I went on eBay and bought the whole series of McDonald DVDs from some other non-cheeseburger eating freak who managed to collect the whole set (which means, I think, she ate four salads and yogurt parfaits during this promotion!)
In addition to the yoga, I’ve been getting back on my treadmill in the past few weeks. A lot. As in nearly every day. Not only that, but my workouts are getting longer and more intense. I’ve increased the grade and the speed and length of the workout. I’m a maniac, maniac on the floor. And I’m sweating like I never sweat(ed) before. You should see me (rest assured, no leg-warmers!)
The thing is, the scale isn’t moving. The scale is a cruel, cruel mistress. Oh, who am I kidding. She’s a vile bitch, plain and simple.
My husband tells me “But honey, you’re working out so much, and muscle weighs more than fat.” HA! I love this one. I’ll go into my Weight Watcher meeting tomorrow night and try to pass that one off to Perky, um, I mean Vickie. “But I’ve lost a lot of fat. It’s just that I’m 250 pounds of pure muscle now. Mark THAT down in your little book, bitch.”
I’m thinking of stuffing socks in my bra. I’m pretty sure if I just make my boobs bigger, the rest of me will at least appear to be smaller.
My husband also tells me “Who cares what the scale says. You know you’re doing the right thing. You’re eating well and exercising your body. Screw the scale.” I know he’s right, but I feel as if hard work deserves reward. That fucking scale had better reward me soon or I’ll stop stepping gingerly onto her and instead jump from the sink counter, bringing down the full force of my 250 pounds of pure muscle right onto her thorax. I’m not even sure what a thorax is or if my scale has one, but a girl can dream, right?
Since the damn scale wasn’t moving, I decided to up my workout intensity again last night. Faster, steeper, longer, harder. And this ain’t no porno movie I’m talking about - this is my treadmill routine. I was working it so hard, people, that the intense friction between my thighs ignited a FIRE.
I know! I know!
My husband panicked. “Where’s the extinguisher? Don’t we have an extinguisher? We really should have an extinguisher.” he screamed as he was running around like a mad man. My daughter had the presence of mind to dial 9-1-1. I kept walking because, goddammit, I wasn’t done with my routine. I’m THAT determined, people. I wasn’t going to let a little thigh-fire slow me down.
When the fire fighters came, they put me out. They yanked me off the treadmill (bastards!) and put the oxygen mask over my face. I’m guessing they thought my ragged breathing was due to smoke inhalation damage when really the heavy breathing is just what happens to a 41 year old fat chick walking at a 6% grade and a 3.5MPH pace. It’s normal.
The captain of the squad was holding me compassionately saying “You’re going to make it, calm down, you’re going to make it.” I was desparately trying to pry the mask off my face. He continued to try to soothe me, treating me like some scared baby animal in grave danger. Finally, I kicked him in the balls and pulled the mask off. I had to ask a question. I needed to know.
“Tell me, please. How many calories does a thigh fire burn up?”
The scale, that bitch, she still hasn’t budged.
Note: some of the elements of this essay may possibly have been exaggerated just a little bit for effect. Maybe.
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