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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My first real Super Hero encounter.

So we have one day of decent weather to play a little golf and my new mentor/partner asks if I want to ride in her cart. So being the newby on the course, I gladly jump at the chance to have a chauffeur on the links to show me the way to golf nirvana.

I had no idea how good this was going to be until I get a glimpse of her at a distance driving up to sweep me off my feet in - now wait for it - the tricked-out, gadget filled Batmobile. I nearly fell over, but my Super Hero balance trigger kicked in and I stayed upright til I knelt down in front of the cart with hands bowing with respect. "I'm not worthy." I've only been training since January. Do I dare? I was as giddy as a teenage girl who'd just been kissed by Lawrence Taylor, no wait, wait, Taylor Lautner. Oops. God, I hope his wife doesn't read this blog.

So I'm thinking, Holy Snot Rocket, her husband is the caped crusader and apparently not worried about hiding his identity. It's weird though, because her name isn't Vicki Vale. She's probably hiding her identity because she doesn't want anyone to know she's a reporter for the Reno Gazette Journal. It has some issues of late, (I mean in the analytical sense, like it doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up - New York Times, USA Today). Sorry, sometimes I just can't stop myself.

I have to say, I play a much better game of golf when I'm surrounded by my true Super Hero accessories and paraphernalia. I felt so at home. It was a little awkward at the end of the day when everyone had gone inside for the end-of-the tournament meal and I was still sitting in the cart waiting for a signal from the Mayor of Gotham City.

Oh, and my partner who's name isn't Vicki Vale, is one of those super do-gooders who hands out her own body organs like candy at Halloween. Oh yeah, you need a spleen, she'll spare it; a kidney, no problem. Where do these people come from? I don't even think she went through any formal training for this.

There was a time when "pregnant" was a dirty word

I promise to increase my blogging frequency. I promise to increase my blogging frequency. Okay, I've said it twice, so that means it will happen. I just don't say Candy Man three times, or even twice for that matter. I don't want to take any chances.

I am back into the full swing of things. I started training again last week with full gusto, okay 1/2 gusto during an hour session with stalker trainer and BFF Robin. I continued the week with two more sessions at 1-1/2 hours and another at 2 hours. Oh yeah baby, paint the Super Hero suit on me now.

I also played golf three days last week. No, I did not walk. I have a CART bag, not a "whatever you call those bags you carry." I think there is a strict rule you shouldn't walk with a cart bag. It's an unspoken rule so don't ask anybody about it. It's like back in the old days - no one talked about women being pregnant, they would just say, oh yes Pearl, "she's in the family way," in a light, hushed whisper. I know it sounds crazy, but it is absolutely true.

I haven't weighed myself this week. I'm waiting until I start feeling some other protruding bones I've never felt before. I might have some hip bones hibernating somewhere. I know I'm making some headway. I have to be, because I'm truly suffering right now. How? You say.

I quit drinking. I know, what's up with that? Well..... when I say I quit drinking, I mean I quit Sunday through Thursday. Okay I quit Sunday through Thursday when I'm home for the evening......okay, and when I don't have any company over. This is deprivation. I think I know how those people feel who go on eight-day cleanses.

It's sad for my daughter though, because she doesn't get a hot meal anymore for dinner. I'm sure you've heard of the book, "The Joy of Cooking." Well, in fine print that only I, as a Super Hero can read - it stipulates the requirement for you to have a glass of fine wine in your hand to master the actual "joy" of cooking. I follow instructions to the letter of the law. If I can't have wine - there will be no hot cuisine. I'm kidding of course, she can still have heated-up kid's cuisines from our grocer's freezer. I'm not a total monster.