Tag Archives: working out

Workin’ It- The Importance of Recovery Time

5 Apr

 *What follows is a conversation between husband and wife regarding sexy time.  If you would rather that your virgin eyes remain in your virginal head, STOP HERE. 

Me:  Sounds like you’ve shaken that cold.

Hubby:  Yeah, this one really wiped me out.

Me:  I noticed.  You’ve gone to bed early every night this week. 

Hubby:  I know.  The NyQuil knocked me out.  I didn’t even need your girly bits to fall asleep.

Me:  *giggle*  That’s ok, my vage needs a break once in a while.

Hubby:  (Sarcastic disbelief) Really?  Your vage needs a break?

Me:  It gets tired if it works out too much.   Picture a Richard Simmons video where my vage is sweating to the oldies.  It needs to recover.

Hubby:  NO, DMTF!  I will not picture your vage as Richard Simmons!!!

 
*A moment of silence while I check an incoming text message*

Me:  Ok, picture…

Hubby:  I KNEW IT!

Me:  …listen, picture my vage wearing a sweatband and workout gear.

Hubby:  I don’t know what you mean.

Workin' It

Can you see it, now?  Do you see how hard it’s working?  Recovery time is important in avoiding injury. 

P.S.:  I’d like to thank my mom for reading this blog.  I will miss her as I know this is the last blog entry she will ever read.

Advertisements

Have I Mentioned I’m a Fainter?

22 Mar

Just a quick message for those of you who have been asking about how the training for my first 10k is going:

*MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS! 

I would try to outrun your incessant questions and guilt laden well wishes, but they could totally take me.  Seriously.  I wouldn’t get a block before I was leaning on a light post gasping for breath.

You ok, buddy? Take deep breaths.

In the spirit of getting my ass in gear, I asked my personal trainer sister to give me a workout on Sunday.  I’m really fortunate to be able to use her as a free resource.  People pay for her time, and the information she gives me is valuable.  It was really nice of her to write everything down for me, go through the program with me, correct my form, get me water, lay me down on the mat, check my pulse, wipe my face with a wet cold rag, hold my hand, and call my name as I came to.

The truth is, the race just 4 months away, and I have a lot of work to do.  I know I can do this.

* Obviously, I’m being an a-hole.  I truly do appreciate all of the support.

What the F Are You So Happy About?

1 Feb

I want to love working out.   I really do.  I mean, if I’m going to bust my ass training for this race, I should try to enjoy it.  Right?  The truth is, I can’t stand it.  Every morning before I get up, I have a 7 minute mini meltdown consiting of whining, checking the clock, bitching, checking the clock again, and then violently kicking off my comforter as I swear under my breath.  I know that once I get to the gym and start moving I’ll feel good about it, but I still have to talk myself into it.  Everyday.  

The crab doesn’t usually crawl out of my butt until I hit the shower so I spend the majority of my workout completely annoyed by life, and I basically have a problem with every person that walks into the Cardio Room.  There’s the guy that no matter how many open machines there are, has to pick the one right next to me and proceed to drop ass the entire time.  There’s the old lady who comes in with a tote bag full of magazines, and spends more time figuring out what she’s going to read (hummm, another issue of Martha Stewart’s Living?  Or perhaps another gardening magazine?) than she does on her machine.   Finally, let’s not forget the girl with the eating disorder that runs for two hours straight, lifts weights, and then runs some more.  Jesus, just throw up.  Less work.     

No one, however, makes me want to jump off the treadmill,  march over, open my water bottle, throw the water at her face, and then bitch slap her across the face with the back of my hand, more than this chick:

Yeah. 

W.T.F. is she so happy about?   

“Why so hostile?” you may ask.  Perhaps it’s because I’m jealous of her love of physical fitness.  Maybe it’s the cute workout gear she’s sporting.  Maybe I’m jealous that just programming her machine isn’t making her sweat like a pig.   

No.  It’s because in every step I take I can feel every single drag of every cigarette I’ve ever smoked, every sip of beer I didn’t need, every roll under my shirt, and all of those late night college munchy binges.  Basically, it’s because when I’m working out, I look like this:

This is going to be a looooooong six months.