8.27.20

In the “It’s All About Me” category, I have to say – I’m loving one aspect of the pandemic, and that’s working out by Zoom.

I used to drive to Body Dynamics three days a week and work out there for an hour. Thursdays, I’d stay for two hours, because “Stretch and Roll” was right after Balance Class.

But now that Body Dynamics is in my basement (practically speaking), I’ve doubled the number of my classes, I’m spending NO time on the highway, and I’ve got my set-up worked out to a fare-thee-well.

Let’s look at the photo. What’s important here?

Well, first is the presence of the amazing Barbara, seen here on the iPad demonstrating a typically-loathsome exercise. (In this case, she was showing her Balance Class how she wanted us to stand, feet flat and hips square, while we pretended to put the pillow we were holding on the imaginary high shelf on our right – and then (silly! Wrong shelf!) on the left. Over and over and over again. And again. And again.)

So the second wonderful thing is that I am on MUTE so Barbara can’t hear me say rude things to her. For example, “Christ God, Barbara – how many times do I have to put this pillow up here??” And she can’t hear me counting. “That’s forty-seven times. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Are you kidding?? COME ON – say three more! Let’s get past this one. SAY THREE MORE!”

Then there’s the small clock on the table, by which I measure how much longer I have to endure this torment. “Don’t do that,” Barbara has told me. “Turn the clock around – don’t look at it.” Little does she know that without the clock, I would crawl out of the room and go find another clock by which to answer the question SERIOUSLY – HOW MUCH LONGER??

But you know what really makes the Zoom work-out bearable for me? See that vent in the soffit overhead? That’s air conditioning. I keep it shut (because the basement stays pretty cool) until the desperation and heat build up in me. I deny myself the paradise until I can’t bear it any longer.

Then I flip that little lever and ice-cold air washes down on me, resuscitating my will to live. Maybe I’m supposed to march from side to side across the room – but once the vent is open, my steps get really, really small so I can keep my sweating forehead in the direct stream of chill.

AHHHHHHHHH. Thank God.

If Body Dynamics installed blowers in front of every client and let her or him adjust the air that blew across their faces, I bet the satisfaction rate would skyrocket. Lordy, I just HATE working out… but I absolutely ADORE having worked out.

And air conditioning. I adore air conditioning.

8.9.20

The minute someone says about me, “I’m sorry – it DOES look like the early stages of dementia,” I am vowing now to bust out the ice cream. It’s going to be ice cream morning, noon, and night.

That’s not quite true. There will also be Crunchy Cheetohs in there. (You have to have some salty to make the sweet more enjoyable. Speaking of which – Reese’s peanut butter cups!)

And I will drink Coke. Not diet Coke. I’m talking – all the sugar. Teeth-rotting quantities of Coca-Cola.

Because at that point, I don’t want to have a body that will obediently clock along to the centennial mark if my brain isn’t going to come along.

This thought brought to you by THE OBLIQUES.

Barbara has me doing side planks every night, and I am now so heavily muscled that I’m going to need to find a lover after all, just so someone other than me can poke at my torso and say “Damn – there’s a lot of steel under all the blubber.”

(One hopes he will be more graceful than that in his commentary, but I’d be so pleased with the first half of the statement that I wouldn’t care much about the second half.)

To be sure, I still look like every bit of a 245-pound Marshmallow Fluff person. But under the fluff, I am RIPPED.

OH, HEY – I’m interrupting myself: Here’s why I haven’t blogged much lately: I’m launching my OVERWHELMING PUBLISHING EMPIRE as a romance writer. I have nothing published as YET… but if you’re a romance fan and are interested, you can check out my writer blog and sign up for my entertaining (!?) newsletter BLISS & GIGGLES if you go to pruwarren.com . That’s where I’m going to be putting the majority of my energies for the moment, just so you know.

Back to our previously-scheduled brag-bitch:

I wake up in the morning and it’s just me. Life as usual. Then I stretch and suddenly muscles from armpit to knee are rippling like an anaconda. I walk around flexing my butt BECAUSE I CAN. And I feel myself up a disturbing amount; really, it’s just not seemly. But I remain astonished by just how quickly this next iteration of musculature has appeared.

I think about the ability to move. To walk, and bend, and catch myself before I fall, and I think – I’m heading for a nice, healthy old age. I’m going to be okay, toddling around Green Spring or wherever I end up.

Sure, I bitch about how much working out I’m doing. Want the list? Oh, please let me tell you! Monday I do Barbara’s low-impact cardio class – which is via Zoom; you could do it too; Google “Body Dynamics Inc.” in Falls Church, VA – followed by Tracey’s myofascial stretch class. Tuesday, I work one-on-one with Barbara, and on Wednesdays with Chip. He does stabilizer muscles and she does global muscles and they talk to each other – which is more than you can say for my stabilizer and global muscles, ho ho. Thursday I do balance class with Barbara (that’s the big Mac Daddy of Body Dynamics classes; this is the gateway drug to better health. Sign up for that one instead of cardio.), and then Gabby’s stretch class. And then Sunday through Friday, I do a home exercise routine (with side planks) while watching Rachel Maddow (it’s a big dose of Do It Because You Should lately; Rachel is most unhappy).

And on Saturday I walk around my house with my hands on my own butt, grinning because I don’t have to do any exercises.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah – sure, I bitch. That’s a lot of working out. But I’m strong as an ox. And that’s going to be valuable later.

Unless my brain goes – which in my family? It’s a real possibility. (They were all drinkers, though, and I don’t drink at all, so I’m crossing my fingers that this will make a difference in my inherited propensity toward dementia.)

And once the brain goes – Ben, darling! Jerry, my sweet! Together at last – as long as I can remember to demand you… because I want to go out fast once the thinker is detached. Talk about making sweet, sugary lemonade from lemons!!

This is what I look like, under a generous snowfall of fluffy, insulating fat. Want to poke me in the belly? Go ahead – feel that!!