There's more of me to love after a 2-day trip to Vegas

I have spent two days in Vegas eating and drinking everything presented to me. Yes people present to me because "in my mind" I'm like royalty. I grew up believing I was part of the Kennedy family because my mother seemed to know every detail of their lives as if she had breast-fed John-John herself. Therefore, yes I'm American Royalty.

So back to what I ate - I think EVERYTHING sums it up. My exercise included riding up and down escalators as well as several elevators. I'd have taken the stairs but I paid for wheels on my suitcase - so I felt compelled to use them.

I walked to and from the car at Valet parking and at four different restaurants. I did sweat but it was more a condition of the heat- over 100 degrees - Oh and when that cop's sirens went off behind me. That was a false alarm because he was actually after the guy with lawn equipment falling out of the back of his truck. Phew wee. Lucky for me because I'm sure he would have frowned upon the roadie I had in the cup holder next to me.

Just kidding it was half a bottle of leftover wine from the restaurant that I snagged from the table next to us. They seemed to enjoy it during their dinner- so I hated to see it left behind. No not really - someone I know actually bought it - maybe. I will go to the gym tomorrow and spend at least 2 hours as if in a confessional.

So the only life I saved while I was in Vegas was that of a toothless meth addict (that may be redundant, because aren't they all toothless?) who was standing in the middle of main street after I was driving away from a Mexican restaurant. I saved her by swerving out of the way before my car plowed into her as she was walking straight toward me in the middle of the street. I feel pretty good about the trip now. A life was saved - so all was not lost - except her poor teeth.

I'm getting stupider - so weight training must be paying off

I'm beginning to believe in the theory of the brain versus brawn. I think I'm getting stupider. Just messing with you, I'm actually not muscular enough to even say stupider with a straight face - yet. I'm a tweener at this point. I really have never been a brainiac (if that is a made-up word - I'm okay with it)-nor a brawniac (totally made-up word).

So as you can see, I have clearly lost some I.Q. points which have been replaced with muscle tissue. Now let's not kid ourselves, we all know I don't have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to the Intelligence Quotient.

Before I go any further down this road I have to do a shout out to my gym-compadres, because I can't afford to lose anymore friends due to my antics in this blog. Okay boys at American Iron gym- you know I love you, but you do realize those girls aren't paying attention to you for your thoughts on molecular fusion, right?

So anyway this is how far I've sunk in I.Q. I actually started listening to these guys when they suggest I train for an event; or worse a fitness magazine photo shoot. They drag me to the Wall-of-Fame at the gym which has hundreds of photos I choose to not look at everyday, because none of those people on that wall have the slightest resemblance to anything attached to my head -(you know? The head that used to house a brain).

So the now dumbed-up version of me starts thinking - that would be so cool at my age to do a photo shoot; and then something snaps me back into reality. I don't know what, probably the arthritis in my left finger - cuz I'm freakin old.

So I say, um guys - that's so sweet of you to think I could actually pull that off - so I promise you, when I die and come back reincarnated as a 20-something hard bodied, oily fitness guru - I will gladly paste my assets all over that wall. But while I'm sporting this barnacle-ridden, sun damaged, stretched-out baby incubator body, I'm going to have to take a pass.

Then they said the cutest thing. Oh no worries, we have a great photographer who knows how to shoot in just the right light and with photo shop and airbrushing you too can look that good. So after all, who am I to say they aren't the best and the brightest? God love 'em. I can never leave that gym now.

Learning to speak Gym can be dangerous

In the gym I not only learn the nuances of training; sweating; and jealousy of others with much better assets than mine, but I now have an entire new vocabulary. None of it terminology useful to me outside the four walls of iron, machinery and torture devices, however I've always been one who loves the art of communicating.

Especially when Mr. Freaky Strong (that would be a large creature who believes loud spurts of grunting, growling and screaming are prerequisites for an authentic ball-busting workout) tells me as I'm two sets into an already agonizing leg press, "You should throw another Ay-Shun on there." I respond with, "HU? An Ay-Shun?" He says, yeah, you know like a small Asian person.

I know what you're thinking, "What the hell?" So I can't help myself - I have to ask, what pray-tell is equivalent to an Asian? Well, let me enlighten you. It is anywhere from 90-100 pounds in gym-speak. Now, I know these guys aren't racist, because in my gym we have every color, gender and species known to man.

All I could think of is - I sure hope that crazy, naked Asian guy trapped in the car trunk of "Hangover" doesn't hear about this. I don't think Freaky Strong would stand a chance to that naked guy wrapping his legs, and whatever that was in between, around his face. I'm almost certain it would be the first time I would see a perfectly healthy mountain of muscle just FAINT.

Oh, and by the way - prejudice does exist in the gym, but it has nothing to do with color - just never call a Strong Man competitor a "body builder." If you do, that will be the last mistake you ever make. I know, how can you tell the difference? Because as much as I hate to say it - THEY ALL LOOK ALIKE. Oh no she didn't. Oh yes I did.

So back to his suggestion of throwing another Asian on. My response was, dude - I'm not trying to be a He-Man-and-monster of the Universe. I really just want to fit into my pants.

If only I could open my EYE

After months of strenuous workouts, muscle building, fat melting, blood, sweat and tears (no actual blood was spilled, but I'm feeling incredibly dramatic right now). However, the tears part is absolutely true, especially when I'm crying for my mommy while my ass is to my heels and 120 pounds are on my shoulders and I'm supposed to stand up.

Okay back to - after months of all that stuff - I have come to the conclusion that I still look way better fully clothed. Okay, I admit I do have some muscle definition which makes everything tighter, except for the actual skin that is attached to the aforementioned tissue.

Even though I have abs when I'm standing in the right lighting; at the right time of day (dusk or dawn preferably); and stretching my neck with all my might up to the heavens while sucking in my gut - there remains one little problem.

My belly button looks tired. I used to have this perfectly round crater in the center of my abdomen, and now I have what appears to be a lazy, drunken eye-slit. Don't get me wrong, the metaphor isn't lost on me. I've seen pictures of my eyes after a few pops of wine have been applied, and I have to tell you that look doesn't get any better in the center of my torso.

I keep telling myself that if I just lose 5 more pounds of fat, I will wake up bright EYED and bushy-tailed; and I don't mind the bushy tail part, because I know where I can get that waxed.

Today I morphed into a horse.

My gym is a breeding ground for fitness geeks. The patrons there train for Iron Man, Strong Man, body building, and anything else you can think of that requires your body mass to resemble that of Twisted-cold-blue steel. These guys are not messing around. They pull trucks, planes, and tractors, which I really don't understand, because all those things are equipped with perfectly good engines.

So now, after I've spent countless hours in their play land with their play toys, my trainer has decided I should start using the big boy equipment. Today we started out with me pulling a sleigh - I guess that's a step up from pulling a train if you get my drift. Yeah that's a whole other blog I'm thinking about writing. Not that I've ever pulled a train mind you - oh and not that I'm even considering it - there just - well, never mind. Another day.

In order to pull said "sleigh," I must strap into a harness, yes - much like a Clydesdale pulling the Budweiser truck. And the harness is hitched to a flat piece of metal with copious amounts of weights. The only thing separating me from the Clydesdales is - there is no arena, no cheering fans, and I can't freely urinate or sniff anyone's butt in front of me. Other than that it's about the same.

If I don't get the Super Hero gig, I guess there may be a space for me behind a Big Ass Horse.