The Walrus and the Exerciser

Late night infomercials.  Damn them.  P90X--damn Tony Horton.  Damn it all to hell man.

At some point last December my near perfect husband Mike took great interest in an infomercial that he had seen several times at night after I had gone to bed (undoubtedly flipping through the channels looking for a little skin).   It was an infomercial for P90X, an extreme "muscle confusion" diet and exercise program.  He'd been getting the 30-something spare tire and sprigs of white hair sprouting through his mane of ebony.  He was feeling his age.  Being 5 years older than him (yes, I'm what is referred to as a cougar), getting ready to hit the big 4-0, I, too, was feeling my age.  My oldest daughter also had a big fancy wedding planned in April, on the beach, in Florida.  I had to look good for that.

So we agreed to order it and start the program at the start of the new year.  I figured 4 months would be plenty of time to shape up the flab it took me 40 years to accumulate.

January 1st, I began the high protein, low carb diet along with the insane exercise (I wouldn't have started them together had I known how difficult each would be in its own right).  For weeks I could not walk properly, I could not move my arms, never mind lift the 50-100 pound children I am required to lift to do my job, I could barely even turn my head.  Muscles hurt that I didn't know I had.

After 2 or so weeks, though, the pain wore off and the routine became tolerable (I never quite got to easy or enjoyable).  I lost almost all of the unwanted fat and inches just in time for the wedding.  I arrived in Florida almost 2 weeks before the wedding, feeling like I was 20 again.

Did I mention the family my daughter married into owns a Greek restaurant and bakery?  All bets were off.  Twice I went for a run on the beach--in three weeks.  Exercise halted.  Restaurant + bakery = diet halted.  Let's face it, I ate like a damned pig.  By the day of the wedding, I could barely zip the dress I had fit so easily into just 2 weeks earlier.  Breathing during the ceremony and reception was difficult, but I sure as hell found a way to eat more.  And more.  And more.

I got back to North Carolina and ate like I had been in a Chinese prison for 10 years.  Toni (the pink cow muppet), was thrilled to say the least because as she often put it from December to April, "my diet was killing her!"  She was even in awe of my new found appetite.

School let out in early June and I had put back on more than I had taken off.  Working for the school system I had all summer off, so guess what I did?  I started P90X again.  Mike never stopped.  Jerk.

It kicked my butt all over again, and again, I got used to it and felt great by the end of the summer.  School started back almost 2 months ago now and guess what?  I'm back up to where I started.  I have belly rolls again when I sit.  I know this because I feel them with one hand as I shovel tiny powdered donuts into my pie hole with the other.

I looked out the window just a little while ago and there went Mike running up our street (effortlessly, I might add), which is a good 45 degree incline--I pant walking up it.  I ate another Teddy Graham and clicked on another ad for Toni or Gary's blog.  I felt the rolls.

I set down the laptop and walked to the window where Mike was now doing push-ups on our steep driveway (again, 45 degree incline)--with his feet higher than his head on the incline.  Damn he looked good.  I ate whatever was in my hand this time and felt the rolls--standing up.  Jiminy Cricket, now they don't even go away when I'm standing.  Really?  I still have them in a verticle position???

I guess the time has come for this walrus to take a pleasant walk along the briny beach.  Tony Horton, here I come!

Jen ;-)