In honor of Cinco de Mayo, I thought I’d post a story that verges on the totally inappropriate. I’m going to assume that if you’re reading blogs at all this evening, you’ve already imbibed more than your share of margaritas and think that anything posted is freaking HILARIOUS.
Because this really might only be funny to me. I’m not kidding.
As much as I’d love to pretend that I am, in fact, the perfect woman and haven’t allowed myself to indulge at all in the time honored tradition that is “gaining a few pounds of relationship fluff,” I love Cadbury eggs. And I love when a man thinks I’m sexy. I’d rather sit around being told that I’m sexy than get my ass outside and exercise.
Now that Army Boy and I are living in the same residence, I’m finding it equally hard to squeeze in some time for working out, whether it’s going for a walk, doing some yoga, or putting in a Pilates dvd. The number one reason for this is quite simple: I’m not good yet at telling him to go away so that I can sweat and look like an uncoordinated hippo.
Actually, those hippos were very coordinated. That wasn’t a very good example.
Tangent Time: How do you fit in working out? Does your significant other offer to accompany you? More importantly, is that a good idea? When I work out, I want to sweat, hurt, and continuously mutter profanity. I don’t think allowing Army Boy to see me like that is a good idea, especially in the area of ‘maintaining the mystery’ of our relationship. He loves to come with me when I go walking, and since we’re in the new neighborhood I’m still glad of the company.
A few weeks ago, when “Avatar” came out on dvd, Army Boy and I hit Amazon to get a good deal on pre-ordering it. We were sucked into the “free shipping!” deal, and decided that we had to add $6 to our order in order to not pay the $6 for shipping.
*shakes head sadly*
Because I’ve purchased a couple of yoga/pilates dvds from Amazon, it chose that day to remind me that “Hey! Fatty fatso! You might want to keep up on the workouts!” and offered Jillian Michaels’ “30 Day Shred” as something I “might like.”
Honestly? I’d heard of the “30 Day Shred.” Some other bloggers have mentioned trying it, notably those over at MamaPop when they started their “MamaPop Loser Challege” at the beginning of the year. I’ve also heard some horrifyingly scary things about the pain that you’ll be in if you use it correctly. If everyone uses it, it must work, right?
Fast forward to last night, when I was feeling motivated to finally open the shiny plastic wrapper and give torture a try. “How bad could it be?” I asked myself. “It’s only 20 minutes.” I could leave the house for a walk for longer than that, and probably not accomplish as much.
Since I was going to hijack the living room and turn it into my personal circle of hell workout room, Army Boy decided it couldn’t hurt to try the workout with me.
We started warming up with Jillian and her spandex-clad gargoyle whorebitches buddies, and I felt confident off the bat. Her interval training sounded reasonable. Or so I thought.
Minutes into the first cycle, I was starting to get winded. I fucking HATE pushups. I was even cheating, following the slightly modified workout because I know my limitations. I had no desire to throw up the delicious barbecue chicken pizza I’d made for dinner.
As we jumped up to start the cardio, I couldn’t help myself…
“These harpies are dirty whore stick figures! They just want to go chew some celery so they can throw it back up again!”
Army Boy looked at me with a little surprise, then started laughing mid-jumping jack. That, my friends, was the beginning of our demise.
The cardio continued, and I decided that ditching my tee in favor of working out in just a sports bra and capris was preferable. We’d closed our curtains so as not to offend the delicate sensitivities of our elderly neighbors as we cavorted around our living room like a couple of assholes, so I wouldn’t be adding a charge of public indecency to the mix.
As soon as I ditched the tee, my brilliant boyfriend latched on to the idea and removed his own shirt. Quite frankly? It was adorable. And hilarious. Encouraged by my laughter, which was slightly out of breath, he commenced doffing his shorts, and continued the workout in boxer briefs only.
I was practically hyperventilating with laughter at this point, wondering how my living room had gone from a perfectly civilized sitting area to a strip club in a matter of minutes. I honestly thought I’d been transported to an alternate “Twilight” universe, where running around with no clothes on was perfectly acceptable and reason for women of all ages to *squee!* with delight.
Despite Jillian’s insistence that I should be feeling the pain and pushing through it, I completely stopped, collapsed on a chair and laughed my ass off. Army Boy stopped his very serious practically-naked workout, and plopped on the floor.
“Are we done?”
“Yeah, I think we are for tonight.”
And that is the story of how we failed the 30 Day Shred on our first try. More efforts at a future date.