Thursday, June 17, 2010

My pheromones are screaming for attention.

When you actually wake up at 6-ish and get to the gym by 6:40-ish, there's a whole new world of people at the gym. These must be the dedicated people - not a group with whom I have much in common.

However, this a.m., I joined my BFF and trainer-guy for a half-hour workout before my 45 minutes of stairs. And what do you know, one of these new folks who seems to know trainer-guy well - stopped to chat it up with him while I was standing on one leg with a gazillion pound weight hanging from one arm.

Then surprisingly enough to me this new guy says, "you smell good." Well, he might have actually said "someone over here smells good." (Let's not forget, these events are all things that happen in MY mind.) So naturally, I modestly said, well I'm sure it isn't me. Even though deep down inside I'm thinking "hey, I've still got it." My pheromones are on point. I did a little victory dance in my head. It was either my pheromones or the smell of Cinnamon Dulce latte seeping from my pores.

It had to be me he was getting a whiff of, because after careful deduction of the fact that my BFF is a married mother of a 5-year old -- I know her pheromones shut down around -- well let's look at it this way -- she was married either July 25th or 26th 2008, so her pheromones shut down the following day.

Wait, back that truck up. I'm mistaken. She started seeing her pheromones in her rear view mirror on her wedding day, because - I'm not sure about you, but I don't think she was buying tampons at the corner market in Napa on her wedding day because there was some great special going on.

Did I mention, that during this blogging experience, I have had a drop in actual friends? But I'm up to a total of seven followers now!

You know, I've kind of lost my train of thought now after squealing on my friend the way I did, so I'm signing off to practice my begging for forgiveness pose, whatever that is.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

If Ed McMahon calls tell him I'm busy

I'm beginning to like my chances of a phone call from Ed McMahon better than manipulating this body into a size 4. And I'm pretty sure that dude checked out a while back. Ah, maybe that's it, when I see him I'll be a 4, but will have killed myself to get there. I don't like my odds on that one; and Gamble is my middle name. Well it actually is my last name, but whoever says that?

Hey, I'm not a quitter though. We all know this, because I never quit on wine during my pathetic course to 134 lbs. It's funny, I was going to say during my "path" in the former sentence, but my fingers took over and "pathetic" was the final outcome. I somehow knew it wasn't really my brain working the keyboard all this time. Someone has me on puppet strings.

And to boot, my trainer isn't helping. He told me if I wanted to be a size 4, I'd have to lose some muscle. He's trying to scare me, because he is prejudice against women will small derrieres. Can you really trust a trainer who's theme song is, "I like big butts and I cannot lie?" I don't know.

Okay, so for the sake of the getting those cute golf skirts, I'm going to stick to it. Now don't be disappointed if I only lose like an ounce a week, which would put me at 12 oz. a year. And after 8 years, I'll have 6 pounds of fat GONE. All my muscle in tact. However, I may not have my teeth by then. Geezus! Why don't I just wait til I can't chew anymore? Weight loss won't be a problem. No really. I'm going to continue trying, because - I don't know, I can't really think of a good reason other than it just gives me something to obsess on.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

I might finally deserve a rubdown.

After three days of vigorous workouts, my eyes slowing opened this morning thinking about my impending day at the gym. After all, it is Saturday when all the newby firefighters are reduced to little girls by the herculean Tamara.

I've been around Tamara for three years now, and I still can't stop staring at her. She is the female, white, red-headed version of Duane "The Rock" Johnson. Her rump is as big as my nightstand. I could actually set my glass on it. Now I wouldn't, but if she were knocked out cold, I don't think I could stop myself.

Oh yeah, I was inching towards the edge of the bed. No scratch that. As I attempted to inch towards the edge of the bed, every muscle group in my body threw up a protest sign and popped open the tear gas. This is the first time in my life I've actually understood the whole, "I need a massage" thing. My BFFs have made fun of me because I'm just not one of those people. They coaxed me into my first massage in Hawaii three years ago (first massage at age 45) and I can still count on one hand the number I've had since then.

You can call it shy, inhibited or whatever. My theory has always been that massages were created to relax muscles. Now, why would someone with no muscles ever need a massage? My fear is a masseur would spend the entire 50 minutes looking for something to rub. How embarrassing this would be. I suppose they could rub anything, and I've heard some of them do. However, I always figured my fat didn't deserve such attention. I will not reward my fat with a rubdown.

Well the point is, I think I now have something to rub.

Friday, June 11, 2010

I'm 98 pounds of muscle and other stuff.

Okay, I'm in business now with my new-found willingness to drop another 6 lbs. for golf couture. At 7:30 this morning my trainer measured me to find that - of my 135 pounds, 36.5 is fat and 98.5 is a bunch of other stuff with some muscle in there too.

He said I have to be on a strict diet to lose 6 of the fat and none of the other. Soooo, this means 1. Cut sodium to 1000mg a day - (I can do this). 2. Drink 80 oz. water daily - (done) 3. Cut out processed foods - (Hmm. blah, blah, blah - I can't hear you) 4. ABSTAIN from alcohol - Easy, no problem. Wait, I'm sure he said no "grain" alcohol. Yep, in my mind - that is what I heard. He didn't say anything about grapes.

Most of my grapes are fermented (Websters: ferment - to excite, agitate) So my grapes are excited, and maybe a little perturbed. This doesn't mean processed; and perhaps they are bottled up and corked. Just like a Genie in a bottle, when they are uncorked, they bring pleasure to their master. Who's not going to free these agitated spheres of nectar? Hello!!! I'm a Super Hero - it's my duty.

5. Train at 85% of maximum heart rate for one hour - five times a week. I don't have one of those heart-rate thingies, so I'll wing it.

Okay, so with that said, I only had time for 30 minutes on the stairs. I'm pretty sure I was at maximum heart rate, because I didn't actually die, but I wanted to. I trained with him for a half-hour. We did something new today, it sounds lame, but, I picked up two 45-pound kettle bells, one in each hand dangling at my side (as if I could place them anywhere else) and he told me to walk around the perimeter of the gym with these in tow. He said pretend they are two 45-pound suitcases in each hand. Okay, then pop out the wheels on these puppies and we are business. I've got tip money in my pocket.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

So ever since the whole Cabo trip came and went I had lost my Super Hero motivation. I've been acting like someone who's trying out for the role of a Hollywood producer's girlfriend, (but without the drugs). Hey, I'm not opposed to drugs, but I just don't have the money I had in college to afford that lifestyle anymore. J/K mom. ;] - all that money went to books, I swear.

I've maintained a 3-day a week workout and have played more golf (in a cart); and the dinners, lots of dinners, and WINE. You'd think with my 30-year high school reunion approaching next month I'd be busting out my old ditto jeans and dolphin shorts to prove, I don't know, that I'm the only freak still in possession of such items. I don't really have them, but I'm sure if I tried hard enough on e-bay I could score some.

Hollywood hasn't called yet, and the women's PGA is, I'm sure, watching me via satellite, but Nothing. Maybe they'd look more closely if I actually knew the name of the association, which is the LPGA. It's this kind of dedication to my craft that gets me everything I deserve.

So, in the form of fashion, my motivation showed up. My Batmobile friend has decided to rid herself of all her golf skirts/skorts. She said, "Hey Sean, you're a size 4 to 6, right?" I thought to myself, ehhh, more like a 6 to 8, but the smart side of my brain (very small portion) said, "You're damn straight I am." Then quietly to myself, I said, "or I will be, and quicker than a newly released prisoner at a whorehouse."

So I sprang out of bed today and headed to the gym for an hour-and-a-half workout. I've eaten a lean slice of chicken, watermelon and an apple. The remainder of the day will include, water, water, celery, water, fish, 2 leaves of lettuce and some other crappy food. Who knew? Cute golf skirts are my new motivation. Have you seen how expensive these articles of clothing are? I think the LPGA was created by a golf wear designer who wanted to make some real money.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

The Predator is smelling up my gym.

Here I was, minding my own business on the stairmaster for my 45-minute ritual of bargaining with myself for damn near anything to get me off quicker - and suddenly I'm beginning to wonder what I had possibly consumed that could make such a rancid smell escape my pores.

As discreetly as I could, I lifted my arms one-by-one and turned my nose to each pit - hoping I wouldn't knock myself out at such close range to this pungent stench. But it's just one of those things you can't stop yourself from doing. Now, I was as surprised as anyone that I smelled just fine. Not anything I'd bottle up and sell, but I certainly wasn't offended by me.

So now the hunt is on, what died and where is it hiding? At this point I see some other arms going up in front of me. It was synchronized pit smelling at the gym.

At exactly the same time, all of our heads turned to the left - to witness the only guy in the room who clearly has no discernible olfactory sense. It was the friggen Predator. Yes, THAT Predator. Schwarzenegger's arch nemesis. This dude is alive, and he smells like he still lives in the swamps of Guatemala where Arnold found him.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't the actual Predator, but he was the spitting image of him in a pastier, squishier, softer, fatter older version - all wrapped up in a wife-beater tank. If I were a full-fledged Super Hero (not the one in training) I might have suggested he wear sleeves to help soak up that funk.

So, the good news is, I was able to use the rancid smell as my bargaining chip to end my stairmaster gig in 20 minutes. As a matter of fact - the dude had the room all to himself lickety-split. My smelling tool is very important to me. I can't have some has-been movie villain corrupting my ability to sniff out good wine.

Friday, June 4, 2010

I slayed my first Dragon

I realize it's been a while since my last blog, but once the Super Hero powers kick in - there is very little time for "tooting my own horn," which gives me no great pleasure.

So just the other day as I was exiting the shower, I had my first encounter with, Dum, Dum, Dum, Dum -- "WASP-MAN." I know I said dragon in the headline, but in my defense, without my contacts in - he teetered on anything from Mosquito, Dragon to - I suppose a fly - if you really want to go there.

So I wrapped a towel around me, because I thought it would make a better story to actually use my new-found skills, as opposed to merely letting him break his own neck from turning his head at lightening speed to shield his eyes from - well - me in "all" my glory.

I don't think I can take full credit though, because he may have caught a quick glimpse; and I believe I pounced on him while he was still in a slight stupor. He has no idea how lucky he was. If he'd have been a fly, he would have had the pleasure of that vision - multiplied. I killed him for his own good really. Mercy killings are in the Super Hero handbook - so I was within my scope of work.

I know I'm supposed to also save lives, like the poor little squirrel that was LUNCH for the Hawk in my backyard last weekend. However, that Hawk was really hungry; and there is no one who sympathizes with hunger more than moi. There are days these past few months that squirrel might have shivered at the way I looked at him. I'm not getting between any wild beast and his lunch - ever.