I don't exercise for months and then, out of nowhere, I get a bee in my bonnet that I have to not only exercise but do enough of it at one time to make up for all the time I missed.
This very second I'm in the middle of my equivalent of a triathlon. (Like all triathletes, I needed a little break and typing my blog while eating a leftover lamb chop seemed a good way to get my strength up for the next phase of the challenge.)
For my first, pre-lamb-chop endurance discipline, I hopped on my stationery bike. To be honest, I chose this exercise more because I was able to grab the magazine section from the Sunday NY Times, allowing me to read a half an article. This not only got my legs moving (albeit barely), it also will help assuage my shame when I dump the paper a week from now. (I always keep the large, storied pile, usually unopened in its blue bag, under some delusion that I will read it in its entirety before the next week's arrives. It never happens.)
From the stationery bike, I moved on to my weighted hula hoop. Now, you may remember from a recent past blog post (oh, the presumption!) that I am pretty darn good at hula hooping. The problem I had this morning, however, is that it seems you need to have two working hands to get the thing started.
After much finagling where I had to use my wrist brace to forcefully push up the hoop -- fractured scaphoid be damned (literally, it's killing me right now) -- I was on my way to an intense intestinal-smashing workout.
With my loose pajama bottoms scooting down with every turn and the Black Eyed Peas playing over the sound system, I felt as if will.i.am was asking me and not Fergie "whatya gonna do with all that junk?"
In my whirling dervish euphoria of hula hooping and yelling "I'm gonna make you scream, make you scream" I decided to really raise the athletic bar by throwing my arms up and down, up and down. (I mean, it worked for Jane Fonda all through the 80s, right?) Anyone watching from a distance would have thought I was being apprehended by the most indecisive police officer - "put your hands up," "eh, you know what, forget I said that, put them down," and so on. My offense? Public indecency, of course.
As I sit here gnawing on the last bits of the lamb bone, I can't decide what my final post-chop challenge should be. Perhaps for some much-needed strength training I will pick up the Times and walk it to its inevitable home in the recycle bin.
This very second I'm in the middle of my equivalent of a triathlon. (Like all triathletes, I needed a little break and typing my blog while eating a leftover lamb chop seemed a good way to get my strength up for the next phase of the challenge.)
For my first, pre-lamb-chop endurance discipline, I hopped on my stationery bike. To be honest, I chose this exercise more because I was able to grab the magazine section from the Sunday NY Times, allowing me to read a half an article. This not only got my legs moving (albeit barely), it also will help assuage my shame when I dump the paper a week from now. (I always keep the large, storied pile, usually unopened in its blue bag, under some delusion that I will read it in its entirety before the next week's arrives. It never happens.)
From the stationery bike, I moved on to my weighted hula hoop. Now, you may remember from a recent past blog post (oh, the presumption!) that I am pretty darn good at hula hooping. The problem I had this morning, however, is that it seems you need to have two working hands to get the thing started.
After much finagling where I had to use my wrist brace to forcefully push up the hoop -- fractured scaphoid be damned (literally, it's killing me right now) -- I was on my way to an intense intestinal-smashing workout.
With my loose pajama bottoms scooting down with every turn and the Black Eyed Peas playing over the sound system, I felt as if will.i.am was asking me and not Fergie "whatya gonna do with all that junk?"
In my whirling dervish euphoria of hula hooping and yelling "I'm gonna make you scream, make you scream" I decided to really raise the athletic bar by throwing my arms up and down, up and down. (I mean, it worked for Jane Fonda all through the 80s, right?) Anyone watching from a distance would have thought I was being apprehended by the most indecisive police officer - "put your hands up," "eh, you know what, forget I said that, put them down," and so on. My offense? Public indecency, of course.
As I sit here gnawing on the last bits of the lamb bone, I can't decide what my final post-chop challenge should be. Perhaps for some much-needed strength training I will pick up the Times and walk it to its inevitable home in the recycle bin.
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