So when I searched for a photo for "skinny fat," this pic came up.
Apparently, Kristen Stewart has called herself "skinny fat" in the past.
In related news, I need to stop calling myself "skinny fat."
When I said recently that I was committed to shaping up, I meant it. I just didn't realize how far gone I was at the time... I guess it's been over ten years (-ish) since I've exercised regularly. Note: muscle-memory is a myth. Or my muscles just can't remember that far back. Let's face it--I can barely remember what I wore yesterday, so I can't expect that somehow my muscles remember their glory days. If they had them.
In the interim years since I last worked out consistently, I rarely broke a sweat doing anything more exerting then wrestling open a box of Cheez-Its. Honestly, it's been so long since I've exercised that my typical reaction to feeling a significant increase in my heart rate is not "feel the burn!" - it's "holy crow, I'd better stop doing whatever it is I am doing right now!" In my defense, I've been uber-aware of my heart lately. When I noticed an erratic beat, I went screeching to the doctor, then wore a monitor for a day, and later was told that I have a "normal" irregular heart beat. I'm still freaked out by this, but rumor has it that exercising will actually help fix this problem. (and not in a bad, final way. probably.)
I've made some token efforts here and there... I bought exercise related stuff, which has got to count for something, right? Workout clothes, fancy sneakers that are supposed to magically shrink your ass, dvds, books - seriously, if thinking about being fit and buying scads of well-intentioned gear was the key to fitness, I'd be giving Jillian Michaels a run for her money. But I've rarely actually put that stuff into action, or I've use it once or twice and then it starts to collect dust.
The package I need to get in shape now.
Treadmill must be moving for laptop to function.
Cat optional, and there better be vodka in that glass.
I've never been one of those people who likes exerting myself. I didn't really play sports as a kid--I'll save my Little League story for another day, but everyone didn't get a trophy in my day--and I always hated gym class. When we had "Fitness" in gym, also known as "spending 45 minutes running," I would always be on the lookout for any male gym teacher who would let me of the hook if I complained about "female trouble." When forced to run, I would tag along with the end of the pack like the rest of the ne'er-do-well smokers I hung out with at the time. [Note from JJ: I totally did this too. AND I played sports. I hated that 45 minute run.]
While I hate exercising, I love the results. When I was in my twenties, I used to work out at a Gold's Gym in the free-weight room. This is where all the muscle-heads would hang, and I may have gotten a contact high from the steroids. Some days it felt like my entire workout consisted of racking some lazy knucklehead's 25-lb plates from the quad machine thingy (which has a proper name that I have long since forgotten, if I ever knew it in the first place). I had a routine that had been put together for me by a competitive body-builder friend, and it kicked my ass. Or it felt like it kicked my ass, literally. I found myself relying heavily on the bars in the handicapped stalls at work because I could hardly bend my legs. It was agony-inducing, but it worked.
This is pretty much what I was going for at the time.
There have been some well-intentioned fits and starts since then - running, jumping around to random dvds with Jenny Jerkface, Wii Fit, taking up martial arts to
I must have been absent when they taught this move. Or maybe I would have had to test out of the beginner part of the room to get to the real bad-ass stuff. Regardless, my dad tells everyone I have a black belt, so at least one of us is impressed by the six months I spent sweating from places where I didn't even know I had glands and pretending I didn't have alcohol oozing from my pores when I showed up on Saturday mornings. To this day, I feel a reflexive need to methodically kick, punch, and yell "Yes, Sifu!" when I hear Prodigy's "Firestarter" cranked to 10.
See?! I'm not the only one who likes to kick some ass!
I'm just not this cute when I stick my tongue out.
Anyhoo, it's almost summer and shit's getting real. I can't hide in winter clothes much longer, despite the fact that the weather in New Jersey has been decidedly cold, damp and downright Forks-like this week. I need to get it together and maybe even abide by my "no wheat/eggs/dairy" food allergy rules, which omit so many food groups that I'll lose weight even if I remain a lazy slob. But I'm committed to putting more effort into it - and hoping that telling everyone I know will help guilt me into getting off my butt. I'd like to be able to not feel like I am going to keel over every time I exert myself a tiny bit. I know it's all about baby steps, so that's the way I'll start - take the stairs not the elevator, park further away from my destination, walking instead of driving downtown when I need a few things. It'll add up, and before I know it, I'll be able to sprint faster than Robert Pattinson being chased by a rabid hormonal mob.
Who's with me???
Note from JJ: Me. You. Donaldson Park. I have running shoes and an inhaler, not to mention the tenaciousness of a fucking pitbull on acid. First person to give up the jog... oh forget it. We'll get twenty feet and turn around and go back to you house for a cocktail.