On Inflatable Balls and the Only Sign Language I Know…Wednesday, February 8th

So, I had to take a week off from blogging (although, unfortunately, I did not take a week off from working out).

Short of having one of my eyeballs completely pop out of my head randomly, last week was about the worst week I’ve had in the last three years of work.  And it’s a good thing that an eyeball didn’t pop out because, Lord knows, I could never pick it up to put it back in.  It would have to idle lazily where it fell, looking under the couch, or at my shoe, or wherever it ended up.

If you hadn’t picked this up earlier, I hate eyeballs and the very thought of touching one makes me run for a barf bag.  And, no, I’m not ready to tell that story.  Not yet.

But to catch you up a bit, last week I ran 1 day for 30 minutes, elipticized 2 days for 30 minutes, and only got 1 day of lifting in.  But given the fact that last week I contemplated jumping on the next blimp for Brazil, I consider that a victory.

Did I lose any weight?  Actually, I did.  But I think it was stress induced, not because I actually changed my eating habits (although I’m pretty sure I accidentally skipped a few meals).

But Critter had me doing these hellish lifting exercises last week.  He had us using the dreaded ball.

I used to think balls were innocuous.  Necessary for sports, dumplings, billiards, and to harness the ability to throw snow, I used to think their shape and utility were useful.

They are, in fact, insidious.

…I’m going to let all that double entendre hang there.  (Now it’s a TRIPLE entendre!)

So, we used these huge inflatable balls, and these were the platforms for our various lifting routines.  But I’m getting ahead of myself; let’s move back a minute.

Critter and I rolled into the parking lot at the same time.  We both got out of our respective cars, right around 6:30am.  I walked toward him, with the express intent on killing him preemptively before the morning of hell began, but physiology didn’t allow for that.  My small hands don’t fit around his neck.

“I forgot the workout book,” he said.

Not wanting to endure crosstraining again, a series of exercises I have no doubt was developed by the Gulag, I entreated him to head home and retrieve the book.  I would begin with warmups without him.

5 minutes on the eliptical to get the heart rate going.  Then up the stairs to grab a mat and begin ab work.  Supermans and crunches followed.

And then Critter shows back up.  By that time I’d already completed 60 Supermans and 60 crunches and he’s all like, “Well, let’s get started!”

“I have started!”  I exclaim.

“Right.  Burpies.  20.  Let’s go.”  He might as well have said “Let’s build sea-worthy craft out of Tinker Toys.”  20 Burpies with already socked abs and arms was not going to happen.

And yet, I surprised myself.  I was able to mete out 18.  They hurt, though.  Alot.

And then he thought it might be a great idea to do 70 pushups in sets of 9 and 10, with 30 seconds of rest in between sets.  “We have to work on your upper body strength,” he said.  In my mind, though, I imagined him nursing an upper body injury from that place where I beat him bloody with a yoga mat.

Oh yes, I could do it.

But instead I obliged the pushups…although, as Critter said, I “didn’t go down very far.”  Ignoring the “that’s what she said” jokes here, I’ll just admit that my pushups were more like “Hold the body ups and bend the elbows a bit-ups.”

I have no shame.

After all of this, we began the lifting.  Grabbing the 20lb hand weights, we rolled out the huge balls at which point Critter said, “Ok, sit on the ball…”

I laughed.

He continued, “…and we’re going to do chest presses and shoulder presses using the balls.”

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever done this, but unless you’re trying really hard to confuse your body, I don’t suggest it.  The fact that your body has to keep balance while lifting 40-50lbs over your head makes it start to spasm in places you didn’t know were alive.  I felt my sides start to quiver; the tops of my legs began to shake.

And I suddenly became self-conscience that someone could look up my shorts at that weird angle.  But that thought took a back seat to the quivering I began to feel in my  biceps as the lifts went on, and I had this terrible image of me dropping one of these weights on my head and passing out cold.

In this vision, when the ambulance arrived, the EMT would say thoughtfully to the gym manager, “Well, it’s a good thing he could only lift 20lbs.  Otherwise, he might have died.”  At which point the manager would go back to wet vacing the blood, and I would live through the event with the great embarrassment that I survived a direct blow to the head only because my upper body is underdeveloped.

Sigh.

Luckily I was able to keep the quivering in check, and therefore skip having that vision become a reality.  All in all, it was not a bad workout.  The tension that comes with lifting on a huge inflatable ball really does work a lot of muscles, and it kept me from the terror of the weight bench at least for one day…even if I did have visions of death.

You know, it’s amazing the visions that I have when I’m working out.  I don’t know if its the extra blood going to my brain or the sheer boredom of the whole thing, but I think up crazy things while exercising.

Take yesterday, for example.  As I was running 3 miles and rocking out to my ipod, I must have somehow envisioned that I was the only one in the gym.  How do I know?  Because I started doing sign language to Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA” at mile 1.2.

(If you want to learn to sign the song, just click here)

“What’s that doing on your ipod?” you might ask, to which I would respond, “Mind your own business.”

Regardless of how it got on there, I was rocking out to it.  And at just over a mile, it came in handy.  As I was making butterfly motions toward the grand windows that face Montrose Avenue, however, I realized that I was gaining an audience.  The two people running to my left were viewing me suspiciously.

If I were to re-vision this, I would imagine them being able to hear the music too and, being ultimately inspired by the teeny-pop awesomeness that is that song, they would nod their heads and begin to imagine the “Hollywood sign” and lamenting that they had missed the “high heels memo” as well.

There we would be, all nodding our heads like “yeah” as we ran the pounds away.

But, reality was much less exciting and much more cruel.  After I noticed them looking at me at the second repeat of the chorus, they sheepishly smiled and gave a little chortle.  And they weren’t laughing with me.

I just smiled back and signed to them “thank you.”

Other than the lyrics to “Party in the USA,” it’s the only sign language I know.

Last week in review:

Cardio: 3 days

Lifting: 1 day

Meditation: 2 intense days

Flossing: Semi-regular…starting to step up that game.

Weight at the beginning of the week: 231

Weight at the end of the week: 229

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The Second Mile: The Ultra-Marathoner Convo Continues! Oh, and Week in Review, January 28th

So, Tad is an awesome guy.

Being an ultra-marathoner, I thought it would be interesting to get his perspective on running, diet, and all things health related. And so I wrote about it, posting snarky remarks in between his gracious and thoughtful responses to my questions. If you missed that post, you can read it by clicking here.

In that post I insinuated that perhaps he would respond to some of my reactions, and therefore I would get to post again…and the conversation would continue.  But, let’s be honest, in a conversation with the Tadster, I don’t really compete.  Anyone who can run 80 miles a week and consider it “conditioning” wins.  Hands down.

I don’t care what Charlie Sheen says, that’s the definition of “winning.”

Today Rhonda and I headed to the gym.  She was complaining that I never run on the treadmill next to her, and accused me of “not wanting to run with her.”  I responded that I really didn’t want to run at all, so who it was next didn’t matter.

And yet, run I did.  That’s sacrifice, folks.

But before you think I’m up for sainthood (not happening, mom), consider Tad’s work.  Here are some of his responses to my remarks in that first post.  I’ve put my remarks in italics, and put his responses in normal font.  And then my NEW responses to his thoughtful remarks come after that.

And if that confuses you, just go back to your abacus and stick to math; reading obviously isn’t your thing.

At the end of the post is the week in review.  As my friend Patrick Shebeck would say, “Later Gators!”

Tim’s remark to Tad’s note that he runs ultra-marathons:

That is a long time. Which means, in real terms, that you’ve run farther on foot than I’ve been on plane, train, automobile, foot, and riding lawnmower combined.

Tad’s response: You know, your response made me actually think about how far I’ve run recently. I did some rough calculations in my head, and I figure I’ve probably run close to 20,000 miles in the past 5 years. That’s a lot of miles…and a lot of expensive running shoes. The cumulative cost of your plane and train tickets, gas, and automobile (and lawn mower) wear-and-tear is probably less than what I’ve spent on Asics and Five Fingers.

Tim: Five Fingers are those shoes where each toe gets its own cozy compartment, right? I have a pair of those, and sometimes I run in them.  But I find that my calves kill me when that happens, so it’s become less frequent.  Am I running wrong?  On another note, do you feel self-conscience because you look stupid running in those?  I do…

Tim’s remark to Tad’s note on pushing the body to extremes:

The dedication that requires is definitely admirable. I want to wonder out loud what it might look like to push a body the other direction, to see what a body is capable of in slovenly conditions. Although, looking around me on the Red Line, I can see that that experiment is well underway and probably on its second and third trial.

Tad’s response: I think my wife would say my dedication is bordering on obsession. But that’s another story for another day…

Tim: Hmmm.  Intriguing.  The counselor in me says, “Tell me more about that.”  Followed up quickly by a “That’s too much information.”  I’ve seen the show “Obsession” on A&E.  If I see you on there I’m calling an intervention.  Running can be the enemy.

Tim’s remark to Tad’s note on not over-running when preparing for a race:

Interesting! It’s kind of like when I’m preparing to go to Standard India, the Indian buffet, and I skip breakfast and lunch. Overeating doesn’t help my body prepare for that food. I imagine over running is much the same. Except, well, healthier…but not as tasty.

Tad’s response: Oh, I can eat me some Indian food. While we don’t have a good Indian buffet near the house, we do have a restaurant (Zagat rated, no less) that serves the best chicken tikka masala and chicken kashmiri this side of the Indian subcontinent.

Tim: Awesome!  Although, be honest, you don’t eat Indian before running long distances, do you?  I mean, I question how one would go to the bathroom on a normal marathon run, let alone an ultra-marathon.  Some thoughts that come to mind: where do you hide the tp?  Do you bother to stop running if you have to urinate, or do you just run backwards?  Is there an unspoken rule that fellow runners don’t mind if they see people “taking care of business” a little close to the road?  In another sense, I can see how eating Indian food might encourage one to finish a race as quickly as possible.

Tim’s remark to Tad’s body fat percentage:

Disregard the above answer to your first paragraph. I don’t eat at Indian buffets. At least not when I’m confronted with 1-2% body fat…

Tad’s response: My wife says that, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that my body fat percentage is not that low. That would put me in Dean Karnazes territory…

Tim: She’s an honest woman.  And I hear she’s from New York City, which also makes her tough as nails and a possible homicide witness (if we’re going by stereotypes).  But, seriously, your body fat count can’t be more than 4, which makes it a good 22 percentage points lower than mine so, “winning.”

Tim’s remark to Tad’s not clarifying whether he works for a secret branch of government:

You never answered whether or not you’re a secret agent…

Tad’s response: Let’s just say that I always thought the words were “Secret Asian Man”, not “Secret Agent Man”. Trust me, you don’t want me in charge of your national security.

Tim: And, yet again, you evade the question.

Tim’s remark to Tad’s noting that his wife gets sick at his using running metaphors:

Couldn’t agree more! And my wife also sickens when she hears me…say anything.

Tad’s response: My wife now informs me that she’s used to hearing me use running metaphors for nearly all of life’s situations.

Tim: But is she OK with it?  My wife hears me burp a lot, but for some reason she still gives me a dirty look.  Being used to something is not the same as tolerating it.

Tim’s remark to Tad mentioning he once yelled at an oncoming runner, “Isn’t it a glorious day to run?”

And had that oncoming runner been me, I would have screamed back. Nothing in particular, just screamed.

Tad’s response: I will admit that, in the last mile of that 100-miler (which was actually 101.85 miles), I was cursing the trails, the hills, and the rocks I had to run on. I just wanted the run to be OVER.

Tim: Uhuh.  Look, you just ran 100 miles.  What is one more, really?!  That’s the way I look at Doritos.  You’ve eaten almost the whole bag, what’s one more, really?!

Tim’s remark to Tad’s mention of throwing up:

You and I share a similar penchant for puking. Ah, bonding over bodily fluids…

Tad’s response: Running has eliminated any sense of shame I have left. Puking (which I have thankfully yet to do on a long run or in a race) is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ll leave it at that.

Tim: I would say you haven’t applied yourself.  Go by my mantra, “If there is no bile, you have to run another mile.”

I then mentioned Tad’s father’s running being noted in a local paper:

For a nice news story mentioning Tad and his father, Indiana pastor Philip Meyer (props to Terre Haute), check out the Tri-Star reporting on ultra-marathoner Dean Karnazes by clicking here.

Tad’s response: BTW, my father completed his first marathon over the weekend, the Phoenix Rock and Roll marathon. Given that he retired from the ministry over the summer, he needed something to occupy his time. Running seemed to be the best fit, most likely because it got him out of my mom’s hair.

Tim: Very cool.  I want to run a marathon, too one day as well.  Perhaps when I retire!

Thanks, Tad, for the great thoughts and responses.  I have to say that it’s really remarkable that you can run those distances and not puke.   Today I basically looked at the treadmill and felt ill.  But, as you said, one day it will be enjoyable.

I long for that day…

Week in Review

Days of cardio: 3

Days of lifting: 2

Prayer/Meditation: 4 days

Weight at beginning of the week: 232

Weight at the end of the week: 231

Flossing: Still going strong!

Next week I’m going to try spinning classes at the gym.  Get ready for projectile vomiting!

Open Letter of Apology and Week in Review Sunday, January 22nd.

Today is a short post, but I think its important.

I want to apologize for the industry that manufactures shirts without sleeves, otherwise known as “muscle-shirts.”

I apologize for wearing your apparel, the few instances that I have.  I realize that my wearing a “muscle-shirt” is a statement of irony.  Not a ironic in the way that Alanis Morissette sang about in her cranky “I’m-a-woman-pretending-to-be-mad-when-I-have-a-great-life” song entitled “ironic” (her examples were merely unfortunate, not ironic).

No.  When I wear a muscle-shirt it is actually ironic in the right use of the term.

I find it funny, actually.  But I realize that those who manufacture those types of shirts might not.  Like an adult buying a pacifier for personal use, it’s obvious that those shirts are not produced for people like me, so I’m sorry for purchasing one.

Now, for those of you who cut off the sleeves of perfectly good shirts (looking at you, Brian) because you want every shirt to be a muscle-shirt, to you I issue no apology.  Instead you get a hands-on-the-hips sassy stare.

Really?

Go join the guy who wears the baseball cap to work out, or the girl who puts on mascara before hitting the treadmill.  You all are ridiculous, and I imagine there’s a nice table in hell (read: Arkansas) waiting for you.

Week in Review:

Weight at beginning of the week: 232lbs

Weight at the end of the week: 232lbs (hey, didn’t gain any!)

Cardio days: 2

Lifting days: 2

Flossing: Pretty regular!

Failures: Didn’t tamp down the diet issue…will tackle this week!

Successes: Didn’t curse at any kids on the ski slopes.

All in all, not a bad week…but not great…

Dietary Issues and Week in Review Sunday, January 15th

It’s a tough night in the Brown household.

No, it’s not because the fiber bars have been working overtime (although that’s true, too), it’s because we’ve just said goodbye to this year’s football season as we know it.

(Cue Taps here…)

Green Bay has ridden the last cheese train into the sky tonight.  Giants: you won fair and square.  Sure your jerseys look like you’re trying too hard to prove that you’re patriotic.  Yeah, your name is slightly offensive to everyone over 6’7.  True, everyone thinks that the Northeast has way too many football teams in comparison with, say, every other part of the nation (Jets, Giants, and Pats for the square mileage equivalent to a day of bad directions in the Brownmobile?  Really?).

But, you won.  And I hope you get stomped from now on.

Sports watching is an integral part of The Year of Health.  We all need hobbies, and while it may be true that I don’t actually play football (although I was defensive coordinator for a losing flag football team in seminary), I love it.  It is my pastime.  And we all need a pastime to keep us sane.  Aikman and Buck drown out the voices in my head that tell me not to have that second brat.  And for that, I thank them heartily…even if I deeply dislike Joe Buck.  I’ve heard better broadcasting commentary at a Middle School pep rally.

But we’re coming up on an ambitious week here in The Year of Health.  It’s “Tackle that Diet” week.

Its become abundantly clear to me that I’m going to have to change some of my dietary habits (read: all of them) if I’m going to lose some of this weight.  Running and lifting will shape my body, sure.  But there is still that layer of fat insulating me with enough padding that I probably don’t need shin guards or a chest protector to play hockey.

I have to lose the gear.  And so I’m going to tackle the diet.

This won’t be easy, though.

Tomorrow my workout is skiing with 21 youth in the hills of Wisconsin.  While that undoubtedly will test my athletic ability to the point of crying “uncle” at the mere sight of a ski pole, it will also mean my first test of different eating habits will be made within the confines of a ski lodge where I will hanker for a hot chocolate, comfort foods, and possibly ice chips (depending on if I knock out any teeth on the slopes).

Nothing is worse than trying to watch what you eat when everyone is wearing puffy coats.  It gives you the impression that everyone is as fat as you, until the snow pants come off and you realize that Kate Moss and Ryan Gosling lookalikes have been masquerading as Mama Cass and John Candy, respectively.

And I really don’t want to do “diets.”  I’ve controlled weight before by this simple equation (get a pen and/or pencil): burn more calories than you eat.

Or, for your math nerds, if x is the number of calories you eat, and y is the number of calories you burn, x<y.

And no, I don’t want to drink a shake that tastes like strawberry ass.  And no I don’t want to eat a cookie the size of quarter and call it a meal.

And sure, I could eat 6 small meals a day…but I don’t consider a hand full of cashews a meal, and I sure as hell don’t consider a bowl of cottage cheese a meal.

I think that we can be sensible here, folks.  You just eat fewer calories than you burn.

But I won’t go crazy.  A friend of mine talked about an acquaintance who was only consuming a net of 400 calories a day.  That reminds me of the scene from Drop Dead Gorgeous where the beauty queen runs 18 miles a day on 400 calories…and she brushes her hair and it falls out.

Nope; that’s not my style.

And it’s not my style to eat 19 eggs for breakfast like I’m Gaston from Beauty and Beast.  While my sidekick in life is short like la Fool (looking at you, Adam), I have no desire to be the muscular “size of a barge.”

Normal health for a normal dude.  Which means I can have a normal, sustainable diet.

But that starts tomorrow.  So while I eat this pizza, you can eat your judgments.  I suggest you eat them with hot sauce.  Passing judgment should always burn (and usually it burns more than once).

Weight at beginning of the week: 231

Weight at the end of the week: 232 (doh!)

Flossing: regular

Cultural activities: cursed at the TV during the Packers game

Spiritual health: 5 days prayer/meditation

Number of days running: 2

Number of days lifting: 2

An Open Letter of Apology and Week in Review-January 7th

I’d like to take this time to apologize.

In an earlier post I mentioned that half of what religious people do is apologize (the other half get redeemed), so I’d like to take this moment to do so.

Apparently some bodybuilders have been reading my blog and have been taking exception to some of my characterizations of people who lift weights.  Apparently they believe I’ve been insinuating that weightlifters are cognitively disadvantaged.

My intent has not been to insinuate any such thing.  I’ve been meaning to clearly state it.

Weightlifting is a fool’s errand.

Can you imagine how weightlifting first started?

Fool 1: “Hey, let’s start lifting things in a small confined room with poor ventilation.  In fact, lets lift them in different ways: overhead, to the chest, lying down.  And hey, why don’t you stand over me while I lift and yell things at me like, “Push it!  You can do it!”

Fool 2: “Sounds good.  Let’s do this!  Oh, and let’s only shower every three days, too!”

Obviously cognitive dissonance at work.  With muscles.

Now, one of you will undoubtedly point out (I’m betting it’ll be Chris Ciupke) that people have been working out since the beginning of time, with ancient Greece being the model example.

I would counterpoint that the ancient Greeks did physical workouts that involved sport and challenge, like wrestling.  Since body-contact of that sort has since been frowned upon in public and relegated to darkened movie theaters, the trunks of hatch-backs, and bedrooms in the current age, modern workouts consist of activities with much less sport.

It is a fools errand to be sure.

But even more foolish is just sitting around doing nothing.  So while weightlifters are idiots, they’re the intellectual “bees knees” compared to the sloths who sit around all day drinking fat-filled lattes, garnishing their drinks with finger nail clippings bitten while reading People magazine.

Week in review:

Cardio Workouts-3

Lifting Workouts-2

Weight at beginning of the Week-233

Weight at end of the Week-231

Tackle the Stair-Climber/Week in Review-Saturday, December 31st

There’s an event here in Chicago called “Hustle up the Hancock.” *  It’s where people run up the back stairways of the Hancock Building to the 94th floor or the 52nd floor, depending on whether you sign up for the “insanity” course or the “mentally deranged” course (you can decide which monicker belongs with which course).

I will not be doing this race.

It’s not that I’m against it.  I actually thought about signing up for it as an interesting post-generator for this blog.  Oh, and the race also raises money for a good cause, the Respiratory Health Association.  I guess I should have put that reason before the selfish reason…

The reason I won’t be running is because the race conveniently falls on my Pop’s 60th birthday and, although my parents live in Carolina and we can’t spend time with them, we’ll be observing the day by doing old people things like going to matinees, eating at IHOP, and complaining about our neighbor’s yard (which is harder than you might imagine because we live in a condo).

And while Rhonda and I are observing the day, my Pops will be running a half-marathon.

Seriously.

I don’t know what it is about parents of a certain age.  They all of a sudden decide that 13 miles sounds doable.  It’s actually, literally, quite inspiring.  Not quite inspiring enough for me to join him in running on that day, but inspiring none the less.

He called me the other day to tell me that he had tried “hot yoga”.  I’m not sure you ever want your Pops to call you and describe a sweaty, stretchy, 40 minute session.  But sometimes you get that call.  If/when you receive such a call, my suggestion is that you try to think about baseball instead.  It helped block out mental pictures.

He’s also trying to go primarily vegetarian, which I think is great.  I encourage it mostly because meat is too expensive.

I would be vegetarian if it wasn’t for the ultimate companion food: bacon.  Bacon goes well with everything.  Don’t believe me?  I’ve had it on corn, ice cream, cookies, waffles, dates, cheese, water chestnuts, bread, and a paper towel (I didn’t eat the paper towel).

Bacon is the chef’s dream; it saves every dish. If I were on Iron Chef, that’s what I’d use it to garnish every course offering. “For our next course it appears that Chef  Tim has made a deconstructed lasagna…with a side of bacon.”  Beat that, Bobby Flay!

My brother-in-law is also on a bit of a health kick.  He’s been working out, losing weight, and following what he calls a “hunter/gatherer diet.”  Apparently if it can’t be hunted or gathered, he won’t eat it.

This diet does not make sense to me.  I gather all sorts of crap from my pantry.  Applejacks.  Jelly.  Peanut butter.  Little Debbie Cream Pies.  I don’t see how he’s losing weight.

This is all to say that many other people will be starting off 2012 with new health goals, so perhaps it will be a year of health for many!  Which is great.  Unless they end up losing a ton more weight than me and enter body building contests (I’m looking at you, Pops).  In that case it will be embarrassing on many levels…

But, I started out this article mentioning the Hancock race because, while I think I would actually do the race (but cannot for the above reasons), I figured there was no reason I couldn’t do my own “mini-Hancock” last night.  It meant, though, that I had to get on that dreaded stair-climber again.

I hate that machine with the fire of a thousand suns.

One of the things that I hate most about it is that I can’t really figure out a way to put my book on there securely.  The gym I go to has only one “book adapter,” which slides over the machine dashboard like an ill-fitting tube sock, and when I finally located it I saw that it was being used by a Trixie who was simultaneously looking at People magazine and talking on her phone while elipticizing.  And I use the term “elipticizing” loosely because her heart was definitely not in it.   Apparently the machine has a “drowsy sloth” setting.

Crushing my urge to unplug her machine and break her phone (I really wanted that book adapter), I moved on upstairs to where the stair-climbers wait in rows (not unlike a firing squad) adaptorless, relegated to leaving my book wedged between two heart sensors, totally obscuring the clock on the machine.

Having the clock obscured is actually not so bad.  I can work out without concentrating on the time, which sometimes is as discouraging as if someone was standing next to you saying, “You’ve only been on here for 7 minutes?!  You look like crap for just 7 minutes…”

And when you yell back at the clock people start to stare.  Which makes your butt mad, because people are looking, and so it tortures you by working extra hard…

But I climbed on the machine, wedged in my book, and started climbing stairs.  30 minutes later Chapter 2 of my book was dingy yellow and my glasses were smudged.  My workout reading at the moment is a book about how microbiology, virology, and how we’re all going to die from rogue virus strains.  “Palin-viruses.”  I made up that term, but it seems to fit.

On a related note, I think there is a good probability that the world would be in serious jeopardy from the real Palin actually going rogue.   But enough about politics. I won’t mention my opinion on Palin again.  Stop asking!

But, in that time frame, I climbed 80 imaginary floors.  And, while I’m not sure how the machine calculates imaginary floors, I’m going to take its word for it.

When I limped off the stair-climber my shirt had magically changed from a dark grey to black, my shorts from emerald green to forest green, and my morale had changed from “optimistic” to “spent.” Sweat truly does change you.  Some people glisten.  I turn colors.

But that’s ok; I had a good workout.  And I’m pretty sure that Hustle up the Hancock 2013 will have a new participant.

Below is the week in review:

Cultural Health Update: Saw “A Christmas Story: The Musical” on Monday and “The Nutcracker” on Thursday

Dental Health Update: Regular flossing has begun.

Physical Health Update: Lifted-2 days.  Cardio-3 days.

Spiritual Health Update: Prayer/mediation 4 days.

Weight at beginning of week: 235.  Weight today: 233.

We’ll talk next year…

*This should not be confused with “Hussy at the Hancock” which is a premier dating service for Hancock residents.