Tag Archives: fitness

Um, ?

12 Dec

‘Member when I was a Fitbit guru and pushed like 40,000 steps a day? ‘Member when I had that fresh-air kick for like two years? And, ‘member how I was still super depressed a lot of time because of life stuff, but you know — thinner?
…I think I miss that.

Dude, it’s been like eight weeks since I closed my last show and I’ve still yet to pull myself into gear, physically. Have been working my ass off on the good brain joojoo (or juju or, Hey…I did that DNA test thingy, so now I know I could even JewJew it)…anyway, I got the mental health crap all revved up to full gear and am trying my best (even on shitty days)  to focus on goodliness, and am sleeping like the dead most nights. So, its not like I’m totally slacking. It takes a hell of a lot of work, actually, to keep up with that book and all its many explorations. 

…Meantime, it’s cold out, and my pants from last season feel like I’m stuffing an elephant into pantyhose, and it’s not comfortable or cute.

I’ve got to get in gear back with the walking and dear God, pull back at least 50% on my volume of consumption. It’s like I’m panic-eating every time I sit down…what savage war is my body preparing for that it thinks could have been worse than what I’ve just gone through?

–Know what? Don’t answer that. Pretend I never brought it up. 

And if you love me, next time we meet you’ll bring veg and hummus instead of chips and those pillow crack-cookies slathered in iceing.

Enough!

The misery beyond even a weight scale, is that of your engorged now-gut, hula-hooped round it’s middle with a choke-hold attempting to breathe, while sitting at a desk 9 hours a day.

…And to that end. This is my absolute last eggnog anything.

…So help me god!

(slurp-slurp-gurgle)

…oh. I want to puke…

~D

The 21 Pound Affect

3 Sep

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Today, 75 days after first affixing the Fitbit to my chubby wrist, I finally crossed the threshold I’ve been waiting for.

…Months (plural) of busting ass to melt fat, only to find the gained muscle would thumb it’s nose at me with every weigh-in, I at last saw the digits pass below a certain marker. It isn’t “The Goal,” but it had turned into the backbreaking illusive number I just COULD NOT pound into the ground.

This morning: I did.

….With a “spare,” even.

21 pounds.

Magically, this has seemed to take a little of my, “Oh-my-God-I-am-so-fucking-tired-of-all-this-healthy-shit” thoughts, and reinvigorate a little bit of mojo.

….Because this morning I didn’t just have the same cuppa black coffee and thing of oatmeal. This morning, I had, “21-pounds-down black coffee, and thing of 21-pounds-down oatmeal”

….Sure, it all tastes like burnt-oat-cardboard! Which I have been surviving off of, for 11 shitty weeks. But suddenly, it was the kinda burnt-oat-cardboard that helped me lose 21 effing pounds! So now, it’s part of a magic award-winning combo! Staid and true!

….Like putting Streep in a drama!

…Or Pixar, slapping their name on a cartoon!

…Suddenly, all the green foods, are less boring again. And it’s actually worth it, that I haven’t had a Coke in 75 days. (And 4 hours)

…With the 21 Pound Affect, the sodium-freeness is a little bit okay, I miss the potatoes sorely, but multi-grain pasta maybe isn’t totally the worst thing.

…Which doesn’t make it all hearts and flowers…and Christmas and New Years, by any means. It still sucks.

…(and whoever the hell thought up a “serving size” of cereal as 3/4 of a cup, is a delusional, unrealistic, asshole)…

…But, at least now…FINALLY…the numbers and mirror are starting to add up a little.

…Or rather, add down.

…Either way: declaring an At-Freakin-Last goal, makes it a little bit easier. And maybe a lot-bit cooler.

…Like a Fitness Superhero.

And now, I’m off to go chug some more 21-pounds-down water.

Like an effing Rock Star!

Boooyuh!

~D

Confessions Of A Fitbit Addict

13 Aug

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Eight weeks in, I’ve beat the shit outta my feet, every single day since the purchase of this fucking Fitbit. Averaging 13 miles per day, and topping badges out at 50k per day (that’s 24.28 miles, friends), this thing has become an addictive substitute for basically everything wrong in my life.  The angrier and more stressed I get, the more I pound my body, as if to seek absolution via fitness-penance, and get the hell outta here.  “Here” being this particular life-place in general in which I appear to be as stuck, as my current weight.

It has become a full-time, full-blown obsession.  I can clock in 10-20k before even leaving the office, by pacing during phone bookings, walking the warehouse in a circuit at lunch instead of sitting in the car, have adapted the desk so I can spend two to four hours printing contracts, while literally walking in place, and will hold every conversation, or wait for the coffee to brew, or copies to come out, or fill my water bottle even, whilst doing what the WHS Pimp has titled, “The Pee Pee Dance,” a sort of march perfected down to one arm swinging in-time, as the other proceeds with the actual job at hand.  At first I feared this would wonk-out my muscle balance, leaving me with a monster hulk right-arm, and a muppet-left…but so far, so good.

…Yet, even together with radical eating habit changes, instead of dumping pound-for-pound in equal to the amount of sweat I’m leaking daily, I’ve frustratingly instead seemed to fuel myself into mega muscle build –so: not great on the weight loss—however, my potato-mass is starting to regain actual shape…for BEHOLD: I have a waist again!  And that ol’ 4-pack is back.  As I mourn the loss of my boobs, at least I’ve regained the hitch under m’butt, so like…there IS one now, instead of the general sort of uni-booty I had accumulated.   Mid a laundry ER the other day, I even fit into some old size 8’s I had ferreted away…which was a “thing”…as I’d previously been beyond muffin-topping my 12’s before this crap all started.

…Meanwhile, as any woman under the circumstances would, I’ve spent quite a lot of naked study-time in the mirror lately, directly after weighing in to no-change-at-all on the scale. This is a scary enterprise.  It requires real bravery…as women (by and large) have the opposite of beer-goggles when viewing themselves in this condition.  We tend to find every single “flaw” and “fat-dimple” and focus on it to excessive length.  “If I could pull this up, it would be perfect,” “if I could shave that off, my hips would look so damn much better,” “if those were bigger, they’d at least balance out that,” “why did I have to get *this* family gene outta all the damn *good* ones?”   These shit-thoughts explode like mental puke, during the first-seconds I have attempted this exercise. Every time. Without fail.

…But here’s what I’ve found: if you brave out the first minute of this task…concentrate on the naked “you” facing back in a kind of point-by-point study, and start to take it in one body part at a time, you can eventually begin to see the work you have put in.  Muscle definition begins to poke out with a flex here, a turn there. You see that bone with less “padding,” jaw definition has emerged, the lower arms are slimmer by far.  Sure,  you have to work on that whole upper-arm flap deal…but look how the shoulder has a shape separate from the arm below it…less dimple at the elbow…less pooch at the belly…the “love handle” area is no longer a hot-mess-handful.

Trying to gauge the real changes taking place, has me at a strange ethical pull within myself.  We are NOT a number on a scale, or a pant-size…you can’t compute humanity to a “perfect presence”…it isn’t our point.  I have always believed that.  And I always will.  However, getting bigger, and then working my literal ass off  to regain some sense of self-satisfaction in my own appearance, has also reaffirmed the importance of taking care of our instrument as a performing artist…as athletes…as whatever it is we do that fulfills the inside part of us that DOES matter.   

…It’s important because it will allow me to do my job better and longer, it will open up and help dispel some of my physical hang-ups and self-conscious traits.  The more honest I can be to the reflection and WITH the reflection in the mirror, the more I can learn to use it to be honest and tell the stories I need to tell, to others.

…Which, if for nothing else…perhaps *that* is the point of what was needed in all of this after all. 

…It isn’t the weight.  It isn’t the exhaustion. It isn’t the size 8’s.  It’s that it has forced me to go outside, to breathe free, clean air…to not resolve stress in a bottle or a burger…to LOOK…actually physically take stock of what I’ve got…and make decisions on how to use and work with it.

The point I’m trying to own right now, is that my instrument is getting healthier and stronger, and because of how I’m choosing to do that, it’s making my brain and soul: likewise.  I will never be a “small” person.  It wouldn’t suit me, physically nor personally.  I have a healthy knowledge of the years my body served me best, and it is that “feeling” I am seeking, more than anything else. 

Truth is, maybe I’ve hit mid-life crisis a little earlier than most, but I can sit and fester my outrage at that and all life’s little injustices on a couch, or I can pull up Queen on Pandora, and pound the fuck out of the pavement, as another one bites the dust.

So happens: I choose the latter.

Cuz that’s how I mutherfucking roll!

…Also cuz, I mean: Freddie.

(Duh.)

~D

Whatchu Been Missin’

29 Jul

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Some reads to keep me sane through the bleakness of in-between casting which goes on and on.

….Season General’s are super great…while doing them…then about 6 to 9 months later. In between, there is just a hollow hole of nothingness in purgatory. Waiting. Waiting for second and third calls. Waiting for the next show to cast first. Waiting for more waiting.

  …In the meantime, I’ve scooped up some lit-read gigs and script one-nighters, which feed me just enough that I don’t artistically starve to death. Which I truly believe can happen to a person, if they allow it to.

…As nothing but the written word, walking, and Netflix, seem to be helping in my current day-to-day Hell of work-life, I have dedicated myself to them almost completely. Even with a maybe sorta broken but for sure sprained toe, I’m marching and spewing words from any and every source I can get a hold of. My yoga mat is forever now where my coffee table should be, so even whilst streaming on the TV, I can get more steps in.

I feel that I have a certain responsibility to just “DO.” Constantly. Whenever I can. However I can. Up hills, by oceans, on mountains, in the car, even while waiting for reports to print out…I can’t seem to solid focus on anything without tag-teaming it onto something else…because somehow, I think my brain figures that occupying my entire person’s function at all times, will make me feel like I own some sort of control over something…at some point.

…I don’t though.

Instead, I’m just perpetually exhausted.

I have no alternative fix or answer to this predicament. I am only stating fact.

…Maybe, when another show is on the roster and I have responsibility to it, and its team, my brain will ease up a bit and let me enjoy the sunshine and being human. Until then, I feel this is the best medication I can grant myself…so I’ll have to keep at it…through even purple toes and pissed off Fitbit buds.

When all you have is all you have, you can only do what you can.

…But I’d be full of shit if I didn’t admit: I’m fucking tired, and hungry-starving to be back home in a cast again. I’ll trade you ALL the Fitbit badges, for that. Gladly.

~D

Everlasting Purgatory

13 Jul

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The space “in-between” isn’t supposed to suck. We are given to understand that it is merely a holding pattern…like a plane taxied out on the runway, waiting it’s turn to take off. You’ve already boarded, already departed from your last gate, and have moved on to the next part of your journey, but have yet to quite lift off into final assent.

….My entire life is in this holding pattern.

Office, Theatre, Life, Finances…everything I own or identify with, is in a metal tube just sitting on that fucking tarmac. And contrary to what we are told about purgatory: it really sucks.

Like…a lot.

At this point, I’ve done all I can do. I’ve chosen the destinations and booked the flights and now…because I’m only human, I gotta just sit here in suffocating stillness, wedged between this screaming infant with dirty diapers, and one of those too-much-cologne-smelling Insurance Salesmen…who never shuts the fuck up. I feel absolutely surrounded by an attack force zoned specifically at my nerves and their Achille’s heel, and because I already left the gate and bought the tickets, I’m stuck here at their total mercy.

I HATE having no control. HATE it.

…And so, the only thing which has benefited in this past month, has been the only thing I CAN control: this goddamn Fitbit.

I am currently 14lbs down, 3 weeks in, because that thing on my arm is now my BITCH. I can’t control a callback, but I can control if I eat a Milkyway. I can’t control if that job recruiter will call me in for an interview, but I can control if I down a whiskey (or ten.) I can be depressed on the couch right now, or flip it the bird and get the hell outside for a walk.

…I have inadvertently turned fitness, into a form of saying “fuck you!” to everything not working in my life. (And all the things which might at some point suddenly decided to maybe work out, whenever/if ever, they finally get their shit together.)

…I’ve considered it a new strategy. Something that will take all the fates by total surprise. Because anyone in the damn world would rather dissolve at the end of these nonstop shitty days-and-weeks, with a bucket of fried chicken, a Blizzard, and a fifth of booze. By NOT doing that, I psych them out… I pull a different hand I’ve never played before. I take my usual patterns I love, which comfort me, and toss them out the window with a Thelma and Louise abandon.

Screw you, purgatory! If I gotta be stuck in this hot tar-smelling, tube of a shit-fest, I’m gonna do it my own damn way!

ADAPTABILITY, BITCHES!!

(as inspired partly c/o OITNB, season 3…second time ’round.)

~D

Fit My Bits

23 Jun

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Post-show bad-eating, booze-swilling, and couch-reading, has added another requirement to the Super-Awesome-Life-Plan-Reboot.

…In the end, it was cheaper to not buy an entire wardrobe in a fatter size, than to invest in a thing which can actually shrink me.

Up til now, I’ve always relied on free fitness apps to get my ass in gear,  my body watered, my eating reigned in, and my booze intake under the “daily alcoholic ” label. But with no theatre at night, no line-learning pacing by day, no show-specific in-shape requirement, and stacks and stacks of plays to read and break down for monologues, I’ve become such a sedentary blob, my body is literally oozing up and out of my clothing like I’m the Michelin Man.

Currently at the heavest weight-mass in my life…it’s really a lot not good.

…Obviously, I needed a new plan for that too.

…And so: welcome The Fitbit.

…A thing I must wear in punishment, to remind me constantly…like a voluntary self-branding. Because when thin people wear a Fitbit, it’s cuz they’re conscientious and, well… “fit.” When a chunky person wears it, it’s like a final plea for help. It means we know we cannot be trusted to moderate and motivate and follow thru on the other eight million free ways to keep in shape. We have to drop a chunk of change on a thing that sits on our person and lights up and buzzes and links to our phones and computers, so no matter where we go: it’s there. Watching us.

…Like that 80’s stalker song…

…Every move I make, every breath I take, he’ll be watching me…

…Which is exactly WHY he was necessary.

A wearing, staring object that cost money. I cannot afford to ignore it. I must live up to it’s requirements, or like a child, it will shit all over me…with terrible stats, bad sleep, an an embarrassing tan line if I take it off and pretend it never existed…just to escape the wearing-shame.

…Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, don’t think I haven’t planned. I understand the responsibility now before me, I get the motivational heft…I have already turned down sodas, Costco muffins, Hawaiian chips, and fast food of every archetype, and that is only at work…since Monday.

(…Im pretty sure it’s Tuesday now. So…that might explain a major source of how I got so goddamn fat to begin with…but anyway, I digress…)

Point is: I smell/see/hear the taunting foods, I look down at m’damn wrist, I whisper, “oh shut up,” or “effe you,” and take another swig of water.

It may be only day two, but it’s better than ground zero.

…15,847 steps…and counting…

~D

(* In all seriousness, this gadget is pretty freakin sweet. Glad I joined the fad on this one…accountability is tops!)

Little B Gets Official

20 Feb

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The Gnome just returned from her first prenatal appointment, getting poked and pried for two hours. Little B (as we will call the baby) is now official.

After eating some chicken I forced upon her to help combat the blood work woozies, she decided it was time to bite the bullet and finally tell her mom she’s pregnant.

…I guess this is a not-great thing to have to do.

…Which she decided to counteract by texting it.

…Just now.

…You know…along the daily line of, “don’t forget the milk, and also: I’m pregnant,” kind of deal.

They have that on auto-text right? (And if they don’t they obviously should. Option #2.)

We don’t know much about the familial life of The Gnome, just pieces she’s shared here and there. Mom isn’t much in the picture, though (until recently) she did live in Grandpa’s attic, who likes to watch old John Ford movies on amp 3,000 at 2 am, cuz he’s mostly deaf and can’t sleep well. We chalk the deafness up to natural causes of aging, but the lack of sleep we assume goes back to his younger days in work habits. He used to be a Pimp, apparently, and was kind of a big deal.

This is not “code” for another actual profession.

…We have our reservations on this in believability, only cuz we’ve seen his “Pimp mobile” which is what The Gnome currently drives to work in each day: a blue Astro van with tinted windows, only one working door, and no hubcaps.

…Not that “hubcaps” make the car…but I think you might be sorely lacking in trades dealing if you can’t even hold onto a couple sets of shitty fake-chrome discs on your tires.

…Or your tires, for that matter.

One day last month she was late, cuz someone in the neighborhood he used to work and still lives in, had put the whole thing on blocks and stripped even those off.

…Now, I don’t know much about Pimping, but I would assume the street cred must run similar to the Entertainment route in the, “I don’t give a shit how big a deal you USED to be, what have you done LATELY,” kind of deal. So, obviously, he’s been outta the game for a while now. But I still think that’s pretty ballsy to just go stripping another Pimps shit on his own turf…even if he IS 103 years old and packs only a Winchester rifle by the Lazy Boy. That shit will still fuck you up. Even with iffy marksmanship.

…I assume there are bodies hidden somewhere which attest to this. Naturally, I want to know more, but I’m going for the slow and subtle pump for info on this one. This is not a work history that just comes blurting out…like a pregnancy announcement, for God’s sake. This takes care and finess.

In Other News:

Thanks to the “Burn Notice” work-out, I’ve already dropped five pounds this week and gained excruciating stomach muscle spasms in my abs. I blame the Yoga Ball sit ups.

…You know that hard contraction of your guts when you’re throwing up…how it just clenches and holds like its the only thing gripping you to the side of a mountain for which if it relaxes even a little bit, you will slip and plummet to your death at the bottom of a giant ravine?

…My tummy feels like that right now.

Pretty much all the time.

It’s making even eating, uncomfortable. I’m full in five bites and feel like I have to swallow twice as hard to clear it down to my actual guts before the abs trampoline it back up again.

Fitness is stupid.

~D

Yoga, With A Burn

19 Feb

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I’m on the fourth season of “Burn Notice,” and feel like it’s some kind of alien sucking all my brains.

…Finally got around to it on my Netflix cue, and now I can’t stop watching.

The leads are “okay,” (albeit stick people with chicklet teeth, and too-orange tans), but I keep watching on account of my great devotion to and love for Sam and Maddie. Sassy broads are my stock in-trade for lovin,’ as well as corny smart-ass side-kick dudes. Put them together as drinkin’ buddies and I am SOLD!

…I feel like I haven’t slept in four days.

(Mostly, I haven’t.)

I also feel like a beached whale.

…This is due to the fact I’ve gained a slight ton since my last show. And also on account of staring at all the chicks in bikinis they keep drowning you in, with every establishing shot, for this show. Apparently Florida hides the retirees and ugly, fat, pasty tourists indoors playing Bingo or something. Also, the half naked men.

…Where’s the beach-love-fantasies for the girls who watched this show?!?!??!!

Even though, (in my head) I know this isn’t the real world (or real Miami), it still makes reaching for the bag of Cheetos less fun, while festing. I feel too physically guilty…at least, after the first season. Honestly, it started fucking with my whole finger-lickin’ Nirvana, about half way through. Now, every time I get panged with a sloth-grossness vibe, I jump up and do fifteen to twenty minutes of Yoga through the rest of the episode. I’ve been known to do this four times per night. Mat, ball, weights: permanently where my coffee table should be. I think I’ve accidentally invented a new fitness regime they’ve missed out on, in the marketing.

…Although, on the flop side, thanks to team SamMad, it also makes me want to swill Mojitos and beer like a fish. If I were a smoker, I’d be totally fucked. Thankfully, where Mojitos are awesome in theory, I hate drinks with chunks of weeds floating in them, and I don’t stock beer. So: saving grace.

…Meanwhile…

OH MY GOD, DID BURT REYNOLDS JUST COLD-COCK THAT GUY?!? I FUCKING LOVE THIS SHOW!!!

…Off to let the aliens devour me some more. Maddie is burning a Congressman with sex-threats, and Smokey’s Bandit is shootin’ shit UP. Obviously, that takes precedence.

~D

He Can Benedict My Cumberbatch Any Day…

17 Jun

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First: Ted & Allen & Stacy & Jim say “Hi.” 

…They’ve been bugging me to tell you for days now, and are monitoring my blog at this point. As they have threatened to procreate new spawn if I neglect to tell you “hello” this time, (and as they appear to be now major fixtures in my life), I thought keeping the peace would be the smarter way to go, on this.

…Also, a postcard just came in the mail today from Mrs. Johnson.

…Seems she’s taken a spur-of-the-moment puddle jumper to the islands for a quickie.  Cuz she’s a flipping harlot. Yet, for some reason, she felt inclined to send all her luggage ahead.  It is now being stored primarily in my belly, like a rising loaf of yeast bread, filling more and more pant space every day.

Super awesome, really.

Meanwhile, for m’first night off since Tech week, I started back up with my walks and wars with the Big Pink Ball.  Twenty minutes of Pilates and a six-mile trek was rewarded by a 3D date with my lover: Benedict Cumberbatch.  Star Trek.  Was super.  He was super-er. 

…That voice and his ridiculous elegance of stature (and general yumminess) makes me want to very bad things, very well…if you get what I mean. 

…Because I am always so subtle that I often doubt that you do.

(I mean: sex.)

…And in other “meanwhiles,” I have about a week’s worth of blog subscriptions I haven’t read, so am going to go now and do that.

…Because supporting the Arts is important!

…And so is stalking.

~D

Cowboys Playing Superman At Ninety

27 May

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Three sessions of Pilates today. 

My abs feel like they’re on fire. 

My legs are jelly.

…I’m seriously contemplating a fourth.

Apparently I’m into sadism at the moment.

I made the mistake of sitting down to watch part of a movie at one point getting up again to go pee, and was seized with the most amazing case of 90-year-old-hobble you have ever seen.

…Something like the exaggerated bow of a cowboy’s lollup, as if the horse were stuck permanently between his legs, and the bent-over (almost in half) incapacity to stand up of my once polio-ridden grandmother…in her later years.

…Much swinging of the the arms helps.  Think of it like swimming through the air.

My every muscle seemed to have been seized and viciously contracted…like a full-body cramp.  So naturally, I figured the best way to loosen that up would be another session of torture.

…Which totally worked.

I can stand up now and everything.

…Course that was about five minutes ago, when I first sat down to write this.  It’s prob’ly all gone to hell again.

…I am beginning to see why fitness breeds fitness. 

It has nothing at all to do with adrenaline. 

That is shit. 

…It has everything to do with the ability to walk like a grown up human to the bathroom and go pee.

That is all.

I don’t even wanna know what my body is gonna feel like in the morning.

…Maybe I’ll do some yoga before bed, to stretch it all out so I’ll be able to actually recline in the lateral position and not have to sleep hugging onto my knees all night long.

Vicious cycle.

Fitness bastards.

…Meanwhile, I found this new pose on the internet that’s for like full body tension and balance.  It’s kind of awesome.  (Not at all.) I call it my “Superman” pose.  It goes like this:

Prostrate on the yoga ball at your middle.  And slowly, and carefully, attempt to raise all limbs like you did as a kid on the feet of your mom/dad/uncle/older cousin, and “fly”…trying your best not to face plant into the hard wood floor.

I’m close to success.

…By “close” I mean “not at all.”

When I actually get the guts to let go of the ground, I teeter for about half a second before everything morphs into slow motion as I either list to the side, colliding with the couch, or shoot my hands out last second to save my forehead from cracking open on the floor.

…Meanwhile, mid-pose (for that whole half a second) my insides quake and contract at rapid speed…much like a spectacular bout of puking-prep just before one hurls. 

It’s honestly a lot less fun than I remember playing “Superman,” being

…Just as like an FYI to cross off the list of things you may have somewhere, that you regret no longer being able to do, as a grown up.

You’re welcome.

~D

…And Then, There Was This Ball

13 May

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I am now the proud owner of a giant bubble-gum-pink Pilates ball.

…The reason is: this show I’m doing, (after the show I’m doing), wherein I will be required to do this:

(see “this” here.)

One obviously needs to be either an alien or a gymnast, or at the very least have a core of steel in order to accomplish this.  I think we can all agree that I am/have none of these things.

…Which means I need to whip into shape, like woa.

Have still been losing poundage at a slowly melting rate through the last production…which was meant to make…say, wearing a corset in this one…just a little bit more comfortable.  But now I have this whole other level of “fitness” I need to achieve in order to keep up with the “next new thing.”

Farce is a physical beast. And I am in no way fit for it at the moment.

…Enter in a private coach structure of single, to double, to eventual triple reps in a very specific sequence that will apparently morph my body into a super model by the end. 

(Albeit a very short one.)

(Provided I do it right.) 

(And we all know I’ll prob’ly screw it up.)

(But there is some credit in trying, anyway.)

…The point is: I now have this gi-fucking-gantic ball in an already crammed apartment, that I have to do something with in it’s down time. And (I guess) do something with, NOT in it’s down time.  And I have nowhere to put it.  The bastard was so huge I couldn’t even fit it into Harriet just to get it home without almost killing myself.

…Which was prob’ly really funny to anyone who might have been watching at the time, but not to me.

…Because that is what comedy is all about: Serious business with uncomfortable (and in some cases “tragic”) circumstances to the “doer,” providing great  delight to all the assholes standing by and watching, while it happens.

Tonight…”comedy” included me in MC Hammer PJ pants (roughly four sizes too big), and oversized Wellies, trying to achieve the reverse of a “square peg into a round hole” phenomenon, and failing badly.  This is where current bodily heft ended up helping.  If I was “fit” I NEVER would have been able to get a running start towards the ball already wedged in the door, and pop it out the ass end, into the passenger window.  No.  If I was “fit” I woulda just bounce right off of it, and collided with an oncoming car, like a bug on a windshield, and that would have been the end of me.  In a “possibly amusing to others, though probably not to me,” kinda way.

…Instead I propelled that bastard inwardly, then spent a great deal of time on the ass-end of the trip, trying to hug onto the ball, while pulling it backwards towards me out of the car. 

…But then if the ball won’t fit on it’s own, the ball, with your arms around it, REALLY won’t fit. One learns this concept quickly.  By like the eighth or ninth try.And then getting out of the car to reach inward to unwedge it from the passenger seat, only really achieves plummer butt-crack-flashing the entire wall of windows to your building.  Which was still better than the time, I accidentally stepped back onto the puddle of  PJ bottoms rooted by my Wellies, partially pantsing myself, while arms were still stuck, wedged around the ball, and in the car doorway, totally helpless to resolve the situation.

Luckily, it was dusk.  So prob’ly only ten or twenty of my neighbors saw me.

…Which I might have kept to a slimmer number of witnesses, had I not spent the entire time cussing out the ball (and circumstances) while it was all happening.

Eventually…said ball was free, I pulled up my pants, and proceeded to my building.

…Where the struggle between clothing, and clompy Wellies, my bag of knitting shit, along with the giant bubble-gum-ball, commenced all the way through the main pass door, and up the flight of stairs to my apartment.

…Where (exhausted), I kicked open the door, and let everything fall to the floor, in a heap. The ball, having grown easily to five times it’s original size, bounced with taunt heft directly into the living room, managing to collide with every breakable thing possible, before settling where it is currently residing…in such a way, that I can no longer even enter the room.

Meanwhile, I am now too exhausted to work-out, at all (on account of the entire episode), and have decided to just blog, wash my face, ignore the devastation in the living room that I can’t get into now anyway, and think heavily on the topic of possibly beginning my new fitness regime tomorrow.

…Or at least consider, thinking heavily about it.

“Fitness” is a very solemn undertaking, not to be toyed with lightly.

Why else would they have all those warnings about consulting your doctor, before you begin to attempt it?

I mean fuck, I coulda died twice tonight, been arrested for indecent exposure, and might have as much as $50 or $60 in property damages now…just from trying to transport the damn equipment.

A single. Cocking. Ball.

“Fitness” is FIERCE you guys.

~D

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