Some people should shower before working out.

Let's talk about smells, yes odors, fumes - not fragrance or aroma, because those are not synonymous with this Super Hero in Training's gym. I have been going to the gym earlier in the mornings while my offspring has been in school, but today I slept in a little later due to winter break and took a leisure approach at getting to my double secret training facility.

I had forgotten why I relished in the early morning workouts until I walked past the cardio room, and it hit me like a Mack Truck all the way to the core of my being. I was dizzy to the point the concrete floor was rapidly approaching my face before my hand found the wall to anchor my twitching body.

I have spoken of this creature before, so if you've been reading my blogs you'll know who was in that room. I knew and I didn't even have to look. The Predator was back. I realize it seems redundant to speak of him again, but he's (not that I like it) a part of my training life and I want you to experience every slice of Heaven with me on this journey.

(Before reading further, I must warn you of the graphic nature of what you are about to experience. You may want to turn back now.)

I really want you to understand what I endure. To say he hasn't showered in a week doesn't really get you to the repugnance of the situation. Imagine a 40-something year-old, 245 pound guy who's been growing dreadlocks for the past 20 years while crouching ass to heels in backwood excrement for weeks at a time waiting to maul a wild beast with his bare hands. And then consider the fact that he may roll around in his prey's body fluid like a dog in .... well you know. Okay, so that's how he smells when he arrives to the gym. I do not have the perseverance to stay for the final, final. My training is not that advanced.

Okay, that's it. I'm done. I've got to take a shower now.

Body Shock or Bottle Shock?

I am approaching my one-year anniversary of the commencement of this blog, which catapulted me to my goal for the Mexico trip in April of 135 pounds. Guess what? I'm still there. Although not celebrating that fact, but not mourning any gain either I suppose.

At November's end I had been told by experts at the gym, including my Gym Husband (and don't tell anyone, but I don't think we're going to last) that I have been over training. I was advised to shock my body out of the routine it has become accustomed to.

So not being one to ignore great advice, I did what anyone would do. I stopped training for 15 days, yep, count 'em. Fifteen entire days. And do you want to know what I did? I flew to Washington D.C. for a Christmas Party where no sea creature or two to four-legged land critter was spared from landing on my plate; and no Champagne bottle was safe. Then I flew to Vegas five times for a sundry of meetings, dinners, lunches and yes there was Champagne and copious amounts of grape juice from around the world. My exercise included pushing a button on an elevator; waving my hand in the air for a taxi and signing my name to the bill. Don't tell me I can't take comfort in some good counsel. I proudly Jolted this body out of monotony.

So now I've been back at the gym for three days this week - only to be surprised by a greeting from Metropolis' own Prince. Things do change when you're gone for a while. Oh, and the divorce papers from my Gym husband were prominently displayed on the counter upon entry. This will be an ugly split. I wonder who will keep the pink mouthpiece?

Anyway it's nice to see new faces and his Royal Highness at the gym, however I'm old enough to be his.... well if I was his mother I would have been a pretty big slut in elementary school, and we all know that didn't happen till much later. So, what I was going to say was, I'm old enough to have been his babysitter. But the point I'm getting at - is his presence will make my time at the gym that much more stressful. Think about it, albeit as a Super Hero I vow to protect everyone in the community, nobility is always a target. It's a well-known fact in all the historically accurate Hollywood Kablooey movies, the villains take a particular interest in aristocracy. I need a side-kick. Where's Gilligan when you need her?

I ate a $25,000 hamburger today.

It was a weak moment after a gruelng hour and a half workout today that nearly morphed me into Puke Girl, when I had an out-of-body experience. It was so surreal that even I wonder if it truly didn't happen.

I was sitting at the stop light (in a car - my car- which I have affectionately dubbed as "Why did I let my ex talk me into buying this P.O.S.?) Anyway, I floated effortlessly out of my driver's side window then into the unassuming BMW to my left, where the passenger was savoring a juicy, dripping, everything-on-it CHEESEBURGER, wrapped in foil-lined paper.

I snatched that sphere of fatty carboliciousness right out of his knotty-knuckled hand and made it disappear quicker than Houdini could say Abra. Now, being a Super Hero in Training and all, I did feel a twinge of guilt. But in my mind, if I was about to starve to death, what good was I going to be to anyone? I view it as a citizen helping out, much like when a cop is in hot pursuit of a perpetrator while on foot and has to commandeer some poor soul's precious motorcycle to catch the bad guy. It's almost exactly the same thing, except for the no one is in immediate danger part.

At that very moment that bundle of deliciousness was worth about the same as the price of a motorcycle, and I just have to say that poor unsuspecting soul was lucky to keep his fingers, because I don't recall ever seeing the foil-lined paper anywhere after the incident.