Man, do I hate exercise.
I don't care that it's good for me and will give me more energy and blahblahblah stupid healthy trainer talk. I hate it. It's hard and it sucks rocks and I'm usually in pain afterward. Hate.
But, fine. I realize that exercise is a natural part of life. Just like death. And, since we have that gym membership and all, I figured I should use it. And be healthy and all that.
Okay, that's a lie. I'm doing it for a shirt. An adorable top I bought last year that I just can't wear given the shape I'm in. Judge if you will, but I can assure you there are dumber reasons than that to exercise.
The gym had been working out fine. Until I lost my motivation. So, I decided to go the P90X route. I wanted a plan that was going to force me to do something different every day and I knew a few people who had had major success with it.
The husband and I started out together. We outlined our goals, we weighed ourselves, we took our "before" pictures. We were pumped, we were psyched, we were going to Bring. It.
That lasted a whole 2 days.
In all fairness, my husband doesn't need the workout like I do. The man is fairly active, he plays volleyball at least once a week, where there's a lot of running and jumping involved, and he golfs for as long as the courses are open. Plus, when we joined the gym and they gave us our stupid fat index tests, he had less body fat than I did.
Jerk.
However, I, unlike him, have kept up with the P90X. Every day, there's a new exercise. From the annoying strength training to martial arts to cardio to yoga. I am obsessed. It's not that I like exercising any better than I did before, but I will admit I feel better when the exercise is over.
Mostly because the exercise is over.
But the obsession I have is mostly centered around food. "When can I eat" is the most popular thought I have. Because I'm a freak, I don't like to work out until it's been at least 2 hours since my last meal. But I only have so many hours in the day. And most of my waking hours are spent, um, eating. I do most of my exercising at night, after the boys go to bed. I have been DVRing all my TV shows, thinking I'll have time to watch the shows eventually. I am about a month behind on... pretty much everything.
I'm in week 5 of the 90 day challenge. Day... 7 x 4 +... Day 34. Crap. I thought it'd be more than that. I took my second set of pictures the other day. I hadn't realized I had been working towards this goal until the day came. I was really looking forward to seeing an improvement.
There was none. None! Sonofa...
My husband, God love him, swears he can see a difference, but let me tell you, there is none. I wasn't expecting to look like Day 90 or anything, but some change would've been nice. So, I've been struggling with the decision to just give up (because it's haaarrdd [that's my whiny voice]) or maybe possibly... try... harder.
I can't believe I just said that.
The thing is that Tony grows on you. In the beginning, you hate him with a passion something fierce. He talks a lot and you want to reach through the TV and punch him in the throat (with a Kenpo knuckles-front kick-back kick combo). Plus his Ab Ripper X? Hate. And it's frustrating to not be able to do everything he asks you to do. So, you're yelling, "Fuck you, Tony!" at the TV. A lot. But, after a while, you find him less irritating. And you actually picture yourself getting rid of all the "grease" and "gristle" he talks about while you're sweating your ass off. And today? I was able to do it all. And well. Well, for me anyway.
I'm not stupid enough to believe I'll complete the challenge. I am a firm believer in low expectations. If I expect to finish all 90 days, I'll never do it. So, I take it day by day. If I finish, great, awesome. If not, I'll just give away that shirt.
I tell ya, I should be the spokesperson for P90X.
Tony, call me.
