I'm Fat and Still Need a Haircut

A mere five months after this post, it is time for me to try and get in shape for the summer so I don't look like I am wearing an inner tube anytime I wear any kind of a tightish shirt.

A few weeks ago, I busted out the 8 Minute Ab DVD again and immediately remembered why I hate exercise:

1. I don't like pain
2. I don't like physical exertion, unless it is awarded with copious amounts of beer drinking after (e.g., work softball)
3. I don't like to sweat
4. I don't like wearing shorts
5. I don't like lifting heavy things
6. I don't like being unable to breathe

So, I pop in the disc and am immediately confronted with the overly-hyper Shazam and his two Wonder Twin sidekicks (in the form of...a cheesy 80s Corey Haim-esque frosted hairdo [and that was the chick sidekick, no less]...in the form of, obnoxiously tight spandex shorts that accentuate my package!).

The first two words he says on the tape are like nails on a chalkboard:

"Hey, gang!"

I immediate look around the living room for the Sharks and the Jets.

He then tells me how "safe, effective, and fun" these exercises are.

I tell him to fuck off.

I get down on the mat for the first time in five months and go through all of the exercises with relative ease. This includes the last rep of straight crunches during which Shazam instructs us to dig the tips of our fingers into our abdomen to "feel" the muscles. He then patronizes with a "hopefully, you don't have to dig too far, gang!" before concluding with a "oooh, that feels good". For a minute, I thought I put in the wrong DVD, if you know what I mean.

Shazam closes with a happy "See YOU in 24 hours!"

Yet again, I talk to the TV:

"Go screw!"

Fast forward to the next day.

I can't get out of bed.

My entire torso, from my jawline to my waistline feels like all of the muscles have been ripped from my endoskeleton. I manage to finally move my dilapidated body out of a prone state and onto my feet. I try to stand upright and I cannot. I have single-handedly regressed 3 stages in man's evolution by merely doing sit-ups for 480 seconds:

I need approximately four days to heal before I can even dream about doing another oblique exercise. Something tells me this isn't the ferocity that Shazam had in mind for my workout regimen.

I also do some free weight work. This involves some curls and other weird arm thingies that I think I invented myself, since they cause an amazing amount of discomfort and do not produce any muscles. I do this one where I hold the weight vertically behind my head and raise my arms up over my head. I think this works my triceps. The other day, I momentarily lost hold of the weight which caused it to come dangerous close to landing on my noggin. Now I know why they call these things dumbbells.

Which brings us to the final part of my workout. Running. Or as I like to call it: slowly killing myself.

I got into my hatred of running, or bouncing up and down, in my other exercise post. But there are some nuances I failed to mention.

First, I get all dolled up. Which means a t-shirt, shorts (which I never wear), and sneakers (which I NEVER wear). I wear a baseball hat and put my hair in a ponytail.

Then I start running "The Loop". Yakuza and Xteen know The Loop. Xteen humors me and runs it only as long as I can run. Yakuza can run loops around The Loop. I also hate Yakuza because he drinks as much beer as we wants, eats whatever he wants, and still complains that he can't gain any weight. Grrr.

The Loop is about a mile and a half around and before you start yapping at me about complaining about such a miniscule distance, I have one thing to say.

"Go frig. I have asthma."

So, I start "running". There are two landmines I immediately have to dodge. One is random dog crap that thoughtful people have left on the sidewalk. Another is a stretch of said sidewalk I have to navigate that looks like it hosted a toga party with the underground worms from Tremors. God forbid they pave.

Eventually, I will be able to run the whole loop without stopping and maybe even be able to do a loop and a half, but for now, I can only go about half-way around before I need to take a break and rest for a few. And by "rest", I actually mean "comtemplate throwing myself in front of the first moderately-sized SUV that comes down the road."

Because, when you have asthma, what happens is this:

When it is the least bit chilly, or you reach a level of exertion that is more than getting off the couch to find the remote, your lungs burn like you swallowed a Molotov cocktail that was filled with habanero sauce.

Whenever this happens (and it happens all the time), I literally think I am going to die. In fact, I imagine my death will be much like that of Pvt. Santiago in A Few Good Men. You know, he was the dude given the code red by the guy who looks like Cuba Gooding, Jr. but isn't and the mentally challened Marine. Wait, that's one thing I never understood. Pfc. Downey was basically borderline retarded, but they gave him an M16 and told him to guard the wall at Guantanamo? All righty. Anyway, those two guys stuffed a rag down Santiago's throat, which caused some chemical reaction and he died.

That's what it feels like when I run.

Sure, I have asthma medicine I take before I go out which should temper my breathing problem. This medicine works for 3.7 seconds.

Once I slow down, I get lapped by octogenarians who get pumped up for their run by listening to Glenn Miller on their Sony Cassette Walkman.

Anyway, after walking for a bit, I start running on the stretch to get home. This takes me past a Gold's Gym, ironically enough. My one bright spot in this whole shabang is having the muscleheads leaving the gym drive past me from behind and go slow to check me out out as they drive by. Remember, I have a ponytail and, dare I say, a killer ass. I like seeing their faces when they see I'm a dude. I say out loud, "Ha....(pant)....(pant)....ha....(pant)....you....(pant)...(pant)....perv...(pant)..." And then I spit and come close to death again, because talking and running is even worse for me than just running.

The post-run rest day is always fun. My legs feel like someone took a sledgehammer to them and it is always humbling going up and down stairs with all of the ease of a post-war Lt. Dan from Forrest Gump. But I do it so I can look somewhat acceptable in the summertime (and so I can drink beer and not turn into a giant blob).

It actually feels good to know that I am doing even a very modest workout, but man, do I ever hate it.

My prediction for the spring and summer?

PAIN!

- Dim.