Vintonville

Lady Friend’s Les Mills RPM certification and gung-ho leap into all things Spin has me worried.

I’m next.

After six months of relative hibernation and inactivity, I feel like those guys from early 2000 TV shows– the sitcoms where the fat husky everyman has inexplicably scored a hot wife.  Not that I’m currently enjoying the extra neck warmth only a double-chin can provide or worrying Little Sis is going to confuse me with a wet nurse. It’s just that winter hibernation has morphed what used to be Lady Friend’s arm-candy into Lady-Friend’s arm-mashed potatoes.

Of course, Lady Friend would never say that, but don’t think I don’t know it’s true.

Still, what’s to worry about? I’m living the sitcom dream: I sit around, crack a few jokes and pound calories while Lady-Friend stays slim and trim. But in the back of my mind I know. I know my refined guilt complex is sprinting up in the rear view mirror and much closer than it appears. In short, my warm, cozy shell of chocolate chip cookie night caps, Friday night pizza binges and general love of comfort food is about to receive the Sledgehammer of Righteous Truth: Once again, T-Town–aka “Tony Horton Town” aka P90X– is in my immediate future.

It’s not that a well-deserved trip to T-Town makes me want to dunk my head in a tank full of piranha–  it’s just that I’ve been a T-Town reprobate and the required penance has my body’s lactic acid wringing its hands in delight. See, despite last year’s six dedicated months of T-Town residency, my last six months have been spent roaming the “Calories Can Suck It” Highlands of “Working Out Is Lame” Island… and that means P90X starts at square one. The same square one that’s home to unflattering post-workout crying when glutes, quads, bis tris, pecs and back protest having to work at more than lifting a remote.

So Yeah. While I’m all thrilled at Lady-Friends’s success and the slow-burn inspiration that’s going to beat my home-run hitting booty back into shape, my inner fatty is pouting in the corner and mopping its brow at the thought of being handed P90X’s platinum ticket to a magical land that turns 35 year old flab into shirtless Abercrombie fab.

Normal people call that diet and exercise, but whatever.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 3rd, 2010 at 10:58 PM and is filed under Vintonville. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.