I can’t do a push-up. Not one. Not even a girl one. I can get in the position. I can begin to lower. myself. gasp. down. gasp. I can see the floor getting closer and when I am about a foot from smelling carpet I quickly push back up. Does that even count?
I started to work out about two months ago without much fanfare. I found a website that puts up 12-15 minute work outs every day. (bodyrock.tv for those who care. NO PRESSURE!) I figured I could handle 15 minutes. Guess what! I can! Buuuuuut. Two months later, I still can’t do a push up, and my pants are tight. I decided it was time to ramp it up, I followed a friend and went on Slim Fast. Remember that old stand by? Yay! Now I am down about 5 pounds and my pants are still tight. Pirate Argh.
When I was a lanky, chesty teen this regimen would have sent me plummeting to about 130 pounds. (Not great for six foot tall ladies. Sigh.) Now that I am old, THE FAT only seems to feed my hysteria about NEVER BEING IN SHAPE AGAIN!!! I mean really, if slugging back two shakes full of chemicals (gasp) and doing 600 jump squats in 15 minutes won’t budge the pudge, what will? One of my pharmacy CE’s was about lab rats who were kept on a near starvation diet. They were healthier and lived longer. Maybe that’s what it’s come to. I just need to starve.
Yes, I know, I know we HAVE to eat. Oh yes and we NEED carbs. I don’t want to hear that. What I want from you is the magical formula. The one that lets me eat whatever the heck I want. I want to laugh with a big open mouth and shake out my fabulous hair when someone asks me how I stay in such great shape. “Well, I just don’t worrrrrry about it dahling, I eat anything I want. Exercise shmexercise!”
I worked at a Wild Oats deli when Jon and I lived in Florida. There was a lady who did commercials for a car company that was a fairly regular customer. (There was a juice bar and wheat grass shots in the deli. A beacon for crunchsters and health nuts.) She had incredible arms and was in super duper shape. I unabashedly DARED to ask her what how she achieved such an awesome physique. Okay, she LOOKED me UP and DOWN and sneered, “I WORK OUT.” Then she rolled her eyes and giggled at her also super fit companion. After that, I threw garlic in her carrot apple ginger juice. (It tastes weird? Hmmmm, I have no idea.)
In closing, please reply with the magic formula. Unless it involves illicit drugs, cutting into my flesh, or witchcraft. Anything else, I’m game.