Day 3

Today, I worked out.

I have told a joke in my act, “I work out once a year…January 2^nd, when I join a new club.” There is much truth in this, as is the case with most humor. I have signed up for countless fitness clubs, usually as part of a New Year’s Resolution vow, and I swear every time it will be a regular commitment, only to fade away and never be seen on their Stairmaster again.

One thing that happens is my first day I do too much, and I can’t go back because I need to recover from going too far the first day. After my orientation, I am so sore; I can hardly reach for my ID to get back in to the club.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I go full out and over-do it, trying to impress the club trainer who’s assigned to me five minutes before. If it’s a good-looking woman, I go even further, knowing how she will stroke me with a “you are amazing for not having worked out in so long” comment. I wait for it with quiet confidence. I know she says it to everybody, but let me be in denial.

I will bust blood vessels in my brain before I put those keys on the lifting machines to the upper third of the weight stack. Yes, I make a lot of noise that I’m sure makes my guide uncomfortable, especially when I let go and cause that loud crashing sound, but I’ll be damned if I will be labeled a beginner.

Note. Pause. Something just happened that might take me off course.

My wife just sat next to me on the couch with two ice cream cones. She says, “Does it make you nervous when I read over your shoulder?” I said, “No, I’m anxious because you are licking Häagen Daz an inch from my nose, and I am writing a blog about losing pounds!”

Back to the workout…

Ok, I will admit I did not go to a gym or anything close to it today, but I did work up a sweat. Someone please tell me what I did will suffice as a P90x session.

I hit golf balls. Nonstop for two hours. One violent swing after another I hit, until my left palm started to blister. I must have hit 400 balls. I was drenched and I could hardly see with the salty drops pouring into my eyes. One reason I don’t like working out is the goal of looking better doesn’t do it for me. I also hate those big mirrors surrounding me, lowlighting all my flaws. It’s like seeing yourself have sex, and that ain’t pretty. And sex with myself is even uglier. (Not that I’ve ever seen myself!)

But in this case my desire to lower my golf handicap was inspiration for the perspiration. I’m on my way to Dallas, and I want my friend Steve to notice how much better I am, as well as kick his ass.

I ate very healthy from start to finish today, the longest day of the year. I may have a contact high from the sugar my wife just waved around me, but I am pretty clean overall.

I haven’t hit the scale, but I think I may have dropped a few…and hopefully a few strokes off my golf score too.