tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27448192932295210452024-02-22T00:36:50.805-08:00The Oddest of OdysseysSteverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-62552033405090425122010-03-07T10:10:00.000-08:002010-03-07T11:06:33.015-08:00AdmissionsWell, I have a few admissions to make:<br /><br />1. Regular readers of this blog (both of you) are probably wondering where I've been for the past couple of weeks. Well, I've been very very busy at work, and I've been recuperating a little, but mostly I've been home looking at my bank balance and deciding that I'm out of money to invest in personal training for a while. I'm not really embarrassed by this; as my mom used to say, it's no disgrace to be poor, just damned inconvenient. Anyway, given that I have a son on a mission and a daughter planning for college, and a new car to buy, and some things like that, I'm just going to have to save up for a bit before I can really afford J2's services again. <br /><br />2. In addition to being short on money, I am also quite frankly short on time. The way I have been working this has just taken me away from work too much and I've got to get back to a regular schedule. Which means working out at odd times, and maybe shorter times, and probably times when I can sleep it off at night instead of in the morning or mid-afternoon. So I've got to make this weight training thing my own, and make it workable in the long term, and without "you've paid for it" to motivate me. To a great extent, that's happened with my food choices, and I've got to make it work for lifting as well. So I've been thinking through that a bit, too, as I've slowly started to climb to the top of the pile at work. <br /><br />3. What is a little -- well, not embarrassing exactly, but odd -- is that I miss working out. I consider that good news. So I really want to go back and do some myself. That's also what I've been up to, a little bit. Planning my own assault on the gym. I went in last night, to reconnoiter, to see if the roof would cave in on me, to try to make peace with the shoulder press and lat pull-down. I would say we greeted one another cordially, if not warmly. I took B with me, so that the discussion wouldn't get too heated. So I sort of got a plan, and I'll try it out to see if I can 1) keep building some muscle and losing some weight, or 2) at least hold my own while my bank balance grows some.<br /><br />4. I noticed that I lost my ability to count. My friend and I have started doing some laps at the track at noon. (Notice the clever use of the term "doing some laps" here to obscure the fact that we neither jog nor run, but in fact walk. Still, at least I walk 1.5 miles a few times a week now, much better than I used to do.) We go around the track about 7 or 8 laps. If at any time you asked me how many we had done, I would mumble something and try to change the subject, because I would have no idea. If my friend Moosebutt didn't keep track, I would probably just walk until they closed the track and kicked me out. Or maybe I'd put 7 marbles in my right pocket and move one over to the left pocket after each lap. Or use M&M's and just eat them. But I'd probably mess up because I have completely surrendered my logico-mathematical apparatus to others when I exercise. And I blame that on letting J2 count for me for so long. Gotta get my arithmetic mojo back. <br /><br />5. OK, the most embarrassing admission is that I slipped on the ice yesterday and fell down again. But this time it really <span style="font-weight: bold;">was</span> because I was coming to the aid of a woman. She needed help moving. She also had a landlord that needed to re-engineer the way the gutters dripped water into a big sheet of ice right by her car. This time, although I did feel it a little in my right hamstring, it was my left knee that caught the brunt of it. After I iced it and kept it elevated for most of the morning, I thought it was going to be OK, but oh my how it did tighten up last night after sitting down for an hour or so in a normal chair. So last night and today I've been trying to deal with swelling and some pain. Summer can't come soon enough for me.<br /><br />So there you are, the exciting adventures of Me, Mr. Physical Fitness, during the last couple of weeks. I've maintained my weight, but I'm sure my muscle mass will soon start to suffer if I don't get back to it soon. Tune in again for regular reports on my own Special High Intensity Training program. It will be everything you've come to expect from me.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-83905350994583095192010-03-07T09:29:00.000-08:002010-03-07T10:09:57.519-08:00MosesSo J2 asked me, "Are you ready for the best biceps workout you've ever had?" Given that he was personally present for most of the bicep workouts I've ever had, I assumed he was in a position to judge this. And it didn't really matter whether I was ready for it or not. My only choices were to participate or to make a run for it. So I nodded weakly and set my teeth.<br /><br />Turns out there's a new machine. Well, new to me. It was actually an old machine that J has moved out of the gym for a while, and brought back when J2's wheedling and pleading finally got to him. Apparently it's J2's favorite machine. High entertainment value, I imagine.<br /><br />This is a biceps machine that lets you put the weights in three different positions so as to provide the most resistance at the beginning, middle, or end of the contraction (or combinations thereof). We did all five recommended combinations: beginning, beginning-middle, middle, middle-end, and end. I recognized that it was getting hard near the end. I can't remember now if I finished all five sets or if J2 let me off the hook a little. I do remember that I assumed I'd be sore.<br /><br />I was sore, but that's not the most memorable part. The most memorable part was trying to shave about a half-hour after the workout. The only way I could accomplish it was to rest my left arm across the top of my stomach, put my right elbow in my left hand, and use that support to keep my right arm in the general vicinity of my face. I honestly couldn't do it without support.<br /><br />I thought of Moses, having to keep his arms up in the Battle of Amalek so the Children of Israel would prevail.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPFFVwGllq95xDVRnM3kc5YeIvkTWvU0B3AuR9Gj_RXtCUuyn0zVufuVZbNyc3lyABiBaIAtEpHAuLao93ATaGfG-WdluXhJJ_3BWyrY3PHBJveJXf3IliAq688KdncrnO0lRAkvQ1KH3/s1600-h/moses1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPFFVwGllq95xDVRnM3kc5YeIvkTWvU0B3AuR9Gj_RXtCUuyn0zVufuVZbNyc3lyABiBaIAtEpHAuLao93ATaGfG-WdluXhJJ_3BWyrY3PHBJveJXf3IliAq688KdncrnO0lRAkvQ1KH3/s320/moses1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445950296444013522" border="0" /></a><br />Where were Aaron and Hur when I needed them?Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-90141342834989438802010-02-19T22:00:00.000-08:002010-02-19T22:19:02.687-08:00Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little LiesAs I believe I explained at one point, I actually started this whole blog thing to record my progress. I guess I envisioned something like:<br /><br />"January 15. Did 3 sets of 20 reps with 10 more lbs. on each machine. Men applauded; women swooned. 6.34 oz. sweat lost. Noticeable growth in left deltoid."<br /><br />Or some such drivel.<br /><br />Anyway, you can see what it's become. But in the spirit of trying to keep some of the original intent alive, I will report that I have seen some numbers on my bathroom scale that I haven't seen in a very, very long time.<br /><br />Now, I happen to know that my bathroom scale is a lyin' sack of spit.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-tqA1xX86vTvCQxIp7H63Jp_Sfo3a7_L60hK6_ecIhuQrfFd3NPj9fm3ptMTHNrVgIuhhDclePaD1AaHnkfsWZiMYc-YFUyyOgzEy_vnWQDWFOeZKnhQVE_1zy8bA-aGYDaWKxpISwQEi/s1600-h/scale1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-tqA1xX86vTvCQxIp7H63Jp_Sfo3a7_L60hK6_ecIhuQrfFd3NPj9fm3ptMTHNrVgIuhhDclePaD1AaHnkfsWZiMYc-YFUyyOgzEy_vnWQDWFOeZKnhQVE_1zy8bA-aGYDaWKxpISwQEi/s320/scale1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440203163924328722" border="0" /></a><br />The Common North-American Prevaricating Scale<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I no more weigh what my bathroom scale says I do than I can fly to the moon. I know this because I am always shocked and annoyed when I go to my doctor's office and his scale adds 10 lbs or so to what I weighed just that morning. "Clothing, water-weight, breakfast," I tell myself, but I am also a lyin' sack of spit. I know my scale measures light. About 8 pounds lighter than the scale at the gym, as near as I can tell. <br /><br />Oh, but it's a sweet little lie, and it is so encouraging. I like to think that somewhere, in an alternate universe, that number is correct, and I'm actually somehow really that weight. So I keep the scale around for the little lift it gives me. And I use the scale at the gym for a little dose of reality. <br /><br />But all of them agree I'm down somewhere around 15 - 20 lbs from when I started working out -- more, if you count a few weeks before that. And that is the unvarnished truth. So, hats off to J, and J2, and M, and the rest of the crew. It's working, and I'm happy. No lie.<br /><br /><br /></div></div>Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-82300401250124748152010-02-12T06:45:00.001-08:002010-02-12T07:21:36.851-08:00Dazed and ConfusedMuscle Confusion. That's the key to building muscles, apparently. You gotta shock your muscles into growing. Keep 'em guessing. Don't let them get complacent. You want your muscles to sleep with one eye open, and even then, you want them to be thinking "No, that's just what he WANTS us to do." You want them jumpy, nervous, constantly on guard. No sleeping at their post.<br /><br />Enough metaphors.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm assuming all this was the theory J2 was enacting yesterday when he introduced me to about 4 dozen or so new exercises, all of which were described using phrases such as "a more advanced version of that one you already don't like, you know, the Killer Deltoid Atomic Grunt." It seemed fitting that one of these new exercises had me on my knees, with my hands behind my head -- sort of like just before the cuffs go on and the cop asks you "What were you thinking, boy?"<br /><br />Well, it worked. My muscles are confused, to say the least. As an illustration, this is how skeletal muscle looks under a microscope, assuming your microscope produces images taken from science Websites:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu65PYlTbrc5XqNXzXlmbGOhGv4jmShIHV3tY-h-DhWz6RPPYZd498t7aak8FVnSxDrxX86uf6juJeUQaQyTjS2Hstj0aYqFomQqwp7m5Rk38f-UN7vqlPDoyhNg5KDRlkMWuij2xgx_ZF/s1600-h/muscle+fiber.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu65PYlTbrc5XqNXzXlmbGOhGv4jmShIHV3tY-h-DhWz6RPPYZd498t7aak8FVnSxDrxX86uf6juJeUQaQyTjS2Hstj0aYqFomQqwp7m5Rk38f-UN7vqlPDoyhNg5KDRlkMWuij2xgx_ZF/s320/muscle+fiber.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437371548421008018" border="0" /></a><br />On the other hand, this is how my muscle fibers would look under a microscope today:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3krLZ0rvlvVSmStEoex0gehkK0MUKJ8SXZZNUh2iIQRYKJ7US9gGSlGwCq7ygWkk5X9dAuOMmVPX8Zls7rWQ-tRHiBoVcR61MIVInBruOVUVdxSCHgCDS7MLHPBgrxkgdueO8i1l5uh9Z/s1600-h/Snakes+Huh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3krLZ0rvlvVSmStEoex0gehkK0MUKJ8SXZZNUh2iIQRYKJ7US9gGSlGwCq7ygWkk5X9dAuOMmVPX8Zls7rWQ-tRHiBoVcR61MIVInBruOVUVdxSCHgCDS7MLHPBgrxkgdueO8i1l5uh9Z/s320/Snakes+Huh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437372550856455218" border="0" /></a>Clearly, we've gone past confusion to utter chaos. These muscle fibers are obviously asking, "What happened? Why me?" Other muscle fibers might look like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6krNLNdTEtPHrCg3AoFOFyqtPRJqkcL4OZwJZSqT-owMT1XnLieN_MOGToGcxULXGHUEiK7JnyQtyYaTsiz0ZNYIZuZmmtImEqL_SuxcS3zEWURncF_iJ82tj40Q4RUCgXOl_Tayf_0gV/s1600-h/cactus.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6krNLNdTEtPHrCg3AoFOFyqtPRJqkcL4OZwJZSqT-owMT1XnLieN_MOGToGcxULXGHUEiK7JnyQtyYaTsiz0ZNYIZuZmmtImEqL_SuxcS3zEWURncF_iJ82tj40Q4RUCgXOl_Tayf_0gV/s320/cactus.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437373644616364322" border="0" /></a><br />These muscle fibers have circled the wagons, and are hoping they'll just be left alone for a while.<br /><br />So anyway, it worked, J2.<br /><br />I'm sure if you were to read Chapter 7 ("Getting Out Those Frustrations") of the Personal Trainer's Guide to World Domination, you would see something like:<br /><br /><blockquote>Should your trainee show the least bit of comfort with their training regimen. and <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">particularly if they should ever yawn during a training session</span></span>, explain about Muscle Confusion and the importance of Shocking the Muscles, and initiate Shock and Awe Campaign #6 (See Chapter 9, "Destroying the Will to Live"). </blockquote><br />Well, you did a good job, J2. You can be King of the Gym for this week. And I'm working on that yawning problem. Really.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-72467504681490554362010-01-31T14:25:00.000-08:002010-02-01T15:11:41.644-08:00A Little Set-BackThe plans for sculpting my new physique hit an unexpected snag last week. Monday morning on the way to work I dutifully stopped at the gym to do some cardio while the Divine Ms. B did her weight training. She went on ahead of me and I was just opening the back door of the car to get my clothes before going in when --<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhkJof_l4pwZH3CP-s87eJ-MbwNSQj6pUVqcJcQ76M0RS0quDyIRmLJdD3euZz7Dz0SCj7KB8Whfd9MUkS_bPGIKSrGXSeddeDmuu8Tb0-iIahTWu6EachO1NP78U2ZtElq74Hwu2tIK5/s1600-h/-planets-colliding.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhkJof_l4pwZH3CP-s87eJ-MbwNSQj6pUVqcJcQ76M0RS0quDyIRmLJdD3euZz7Dz0SCj7KB8Whfd9MUkS_bPGIKSrGXSeddeDmuu8Tb0-iIahTWu6EachO1NP78U2ZtElq74Hwu2tIK5/s320/-planets-colliding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433038774797005010" border="0" /></a><br />A Great Disturbance in the Force<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">BAM! -- down I went on the ice. OK, the above picture may be a little over-dramatic. But that's what it felt like. It probably looked more like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVglZ2ehAF7n-8EqdOB5o8Ph44V5N_hi-rgtNQNz1OeJnTxiVCRbw1g7NExpFEgJxgivngQX6jKbBsci9hRpDPHRtsMc6ta_ZmXEXqBbSGfy4z6-E5netRFTcqlDWKKWNhkaXbkfEt89t/s1600-h/ice_slip.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVglZ2ehAF7n-8EqdOB5o8Ph44V5N_hi-rgtNQNz1OeJnTxiVCRbw1g7NExpFEgJxgivngQX6jKbBsci9hRpDPHRtsMc6ta_ZmXEXqBbSGfy4z6-E5netRFTcqlDWKKWNhkaXbkfEt89t/s320/ice_slip.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433039332637247410" border="0" /></a><br />-- but without the briefcase.<br /><br />Anyway, my wife heard my noises, and went to get help, and J came out helped me in, and determined from where I said it hurt like #@!! that I probably tore my hamstring. Anyway, he iced it up, and after a while the Divine Ms. B took me to the Insta-Care for X-rays and all.<br /><br />Yup. Torn hamstring. Maybe a torn adductor, too. The doctor and nurse became my very best friends by offering me some drugs before the X-ray. Three shots in the opposite hip. I loved each of them.<br /><br />To make a long story somewhat shorter, and to do honor to the many forensic-medical shows currently on the air, if my body were to be examined at this point the report would read:<br /><br /><blockquote>Significant bruising on right posterior thigh, consistent with tearing of hamstring and adductor muscles. Also some bruising of left gluteal muscle, consistent with being shot in the A$$ with a pack-saddle. </blockquote><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmn4-ptCIDWOR2KqB8WQaA1uVxthiiV-whKDlV0Dnd-o2KueLa1mpBCxq8SWzZET8PustQfRqiXSBDtDmnuOPwDI632rNDqKc3NKGRiRmnhOXdEkgtv14qcdez9N6yx9AzCD9zr6jiCdl/s1600-h/P1150780.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmn4-ptCIDWOR2KqB8WQaA1uVxthiiV-whKDlV0Dnd-o2KueLa1mpBCxq8SWzZET8PustQfRqiXSBDtDmnuOPwDI632rNDqKc3NKGRiRmnhOXdEkgtv14qcdez9N6yx9AzCD9zr6jiCdl/s320/P1150780.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433047517283110914" border="0" /></a><br />Anyway, it took me out of circulation for a couple of days, and although I'm now up and around, limping on my right leg from the hamstring, and on my left from the injections, I still can't operate a brake or gas pedal. So I'm pretty much at the mercy of the Divine Ms. B to get me around.<br /><br />Tomorrow, I'm going back to the Gym to start some rehabilitation, and to keep my upper body in some kind of shape. Can't say I'm looking forward to it. If they're not nice to me, I'll show 'em my bruise.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-22984077401878155972010-01-21T05:50:00.000-08:002010-01-21T06:29:55.962-08:00The Protein JungleIt's a jungle out there.<br /><br />Protein supplements are an essential part of building muscle, as near as I can tell. So if you've embarked on the Odyssey, you'll be in the market for protein powders, bars, salves, sprays, whatever, to get you the total daily allowance of protein (after the regulation six servings of chicken breast, of course).<br /><br />And there are a LOT of people out there who want to sell it to you, with come-hither ads:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8VF84dFNXgNWZzZ4Uzh5YR2Y93Tmbrd1opK9onb-6RfazMGpsd0ADm3KmHq3FxAmDchxVAY2mTEF8KJCHlJwCB0rWqDR_fq9ggA4XAViLu7QJ4y_7otL5fqNEWJjP3CiwtZkY0i3Nh0G/s1600-h/the-body-evolution-protein-product.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8VF84dFNXgNWZzZ4Uzh5YR2Y93Tmbrd1opK9onb-6RfazMGpsd0ADm3KmHq3FxAmDchxVAY2mTEF8KJCHlJwCB0rWqDR_fq9ggA4XAViLu7QJ4y_7otL5fqNEWJjP3CiwtZkY0i3Nh0G/s320/the-body-evolution-protein-product.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429199546941750594" border="0" /></a>Any health-food store worth its Black Cohosh capsules will have 20 or 30 different brands of powdered whey protein.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5D-k7xKzF7uoTxWuvy9ZKfm2QDd17p6-a79Cfsac1DDS9ZW-YSJSpi_yEBIBYhMcKlfbicd4U8KY7kjZ0LCM0wlIf0_YTkbjtz3aFG1-fSWuk-wSsd9JLrOv0E5NnkN6g6sddiOBNP-8f/s1600-h/supplementstore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5D-k7xKzF7uoTxWuvy9ZKfm2QDd17p6-a79Cfsac1DDS9ZW-YSJSpi_yEBIBYhMcKlfbicd4U8KY7kjZ0LCM0wlIf0_YTkbjtz3aFG1-fSWuk-wSsd9JLrOv0E5NnkN6g6sddiOBNP-8f/s320/supplementstore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429195576086096546" border="0" /></a><br />They might even have a few protein bars.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8lymbvNWdR9om_yFWK3XYWKFxITNi0tJYnoHHxbn5SVHRa6VNFZppCvjVx2_aqwQo442BU_zttUocmHlys3MwCXkWqjEh75qgwiYgcSx07qAcBebhGiKR-mjXnzsePzxx6Qp2Wfde_4_C/s1600-h/food-energy-protein-bars-02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8lymbvNWdR9om_yFWK3XYWKFxITNi0tJYnoHHxbn5SVHRa6VNFZppCvjVx2_aqwQo442BU_zttUocmHlys3MwCXkWqjEh75qgwiYgcSx07qAcBebhGiKR-mjXnzsePzxx6Qp2Wfde_4_C/s320/food-energy-protein-bars-02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429196048557799810" border="0" /></a><br />Heck, any supermarket will have at least a dozen protein bars.<br /><br />There are choices to be made, folks. My object has been simple: find the protein source with highest ratio of protein to carbs or fat. Shakes are better than bars in general, but sometimes bars are just quicker and more convenient.<br /><br />But there's one more variable to be factored in. The Divine Ms B brought it sharply into focus a couple of days ago. We had purchased an assortment of bars to sample and examine carefully their various offerings of protein, carbs, fat, etc. As she took a bite of one, she said,<br /><br />"You know, if someone gave this to me, and said, 'Here, I found this, but I'm not sure if it's food or not,' I wouldn't know what to tell them."<br /><br />Yeah. Not all of them are what you call tasty.<br /><br />I'm happy to report that, for the time being, we found one that has pretty good ratios and would probably be identified as food in a blind taste test. So we're happy. And you can get it at Costco.<br /><br />The research continues.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-70090040895505567022010-01-15T06:12:00.000-08:002010-01-15T06:24:24.689-08:00Beyond My Poor Power to Add or DetractSometimes, someone comes along and just writes a perfect blog entry for you.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4EE_cYDZNUtpLrwj1zY_HaTEhv5xx_rc73imns9U_Z0JIzJimPArOP2Y8f26sHbjzxM8h_iyCz3JIcKDzVyw2g64yjY5oRI9mD_vy_fQYFkMauiYJE2KaB5PSS3sZId_drl098L1TpzVI/s1600-h/307178.full.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4EE_cYDZNUtpLrwj1zY_HaTEhv5xx_rc73imns9U_Z0JIzJimPArOP2Y8f26sHbjzxM8h_iyCz3JIcKDzVyw2g64yjY5oRI9mD_vy_fQYFkMauiYJE2KaB5PSS3sZId_drl098L1TpzVI/s400/307178.full.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426972266387624322" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">http://comics.com/fort_knox/2010-01-15/<br /><br /><br /></div>Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-72988515379690929642010-01-12T22:23:00.000-08:002010-01-12T23:04:36.867-08:00Stress ReliefI've heard that exercise is good for stress relief. It makes sense that lifting weights can help you get out your aggression, nervousness, anger, or frustration. Something about working those muscles as hard and fast as you can just eases the adrenaline surplus and ups the endorphins. Running can do the same thing, or biking hard, or beating the living daylights out of an old toilet with a baseball bat.<br /><br />OK, maybe too much information there.<br /><br />But anyway, the point is that exercise is good for your mental health. It can make you feel better.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjgvurM18OIrSPlSjFFLLTdDmLFPHObtIh7Srn_-BQEE2jUEDVWsV4KLBLfMoQOnKBHyJdmDSzjsSDE7r4ZM9VPkQexHCad4KowTn6IrnOsrNYo2DofFYtUnbWk0GtLQxCuoADkpLYG7-R/s1600-h/young-smiling-man-lifting-weights-at-the-gym-thumb8082600.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjgvurM18OIrSPlSjFFLLTdDmLFPHObtIh7Srn_-BQEE2jUEDVWsV4KLBLfMoQOnKBHyJdmDSzjsSDE7r4ZM9VPkQexHCad4KowTn6IrnOsrNYo2DofFYtUnbWk0GtLQxCuoADkpLYG7-R/s320/young-smiling-man-lifting-weights-at-the-gym-thumb8082600.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426110560129922946" border="0" /></a>See? All these happy people are exercising!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">But what I didn't know until today was the emotional benefit of helping <span style="font-weight: bold;">other people</span> exercise. I learned this today in my weightlifting session with J2. Early in our session J2 shared with me that he was somewhat preoccupied with a thorny personal issue which, I had to admit after his description, would give any man pause. Maybe even rewind (rimshot!). Anyway, I certainly commiserated with him and hoped things worked out favorably for him.<br /><br />Then, about forty-five minutes into the workout, I happened to look at the clock and noticed that only 25 minutes had gone by. Something was wrong with the clocks at the gym. Making a mental note to mention this to J, I pushed on forward through the haze of fatigue rapidly building up around me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUxNbvk-xXivHE_zjyxzL0BQJuJYyJpmWL6NyhEHExmreLBewWOSnDp6tABPOjQ0HhUfDiUrT0IF65Km6bBGYDxaQEPvqFvRc4-Ll2bZfCl8_ul0k1Jvi6B9hDeplpDlhfeJe2YCL7-IK/s1600-h/wasted-time.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUxNbvk-xXivHE_zjyxzL0BQJuJYyJpmWL6NyhEHExmreLBewWOSnDp6tABPOjQ0HhUfDiUrT0IF65Km6bBGYDxaQEPvqFvRc4-Ll2bZfCl8_ul0k1Jvi6B9hDeplpDlhfeJe2YCL7-IK/s320/wasted-time.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426113283184436610" border="0" /></a><br />After another 25 minutes or so, I looked up and found that only another 10 minutes had registered on the clock. I started to feel a little panicky. I began looking at my own watch after every set. Time was slowing down. It <span style="font-weight: bold;">had</span> to be that the hour was up. And yet, J2 just kept going, room to room, adding some weight to each machine, oblivious to the time warp that had enveloped the building.<br /><br />Finally when my watch actually said 45 minutes had elapsed, and I was lying in a pool of my own sweat on the prone leg curl, refusing to move, J2 said, "Oh, I'm sorry! Am I taking out some of my frustration on you today?"<br /><br />Just a little, there, J2. Just a little.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9Op6NOyVbH44StyYuruXYhd9il2G3zWVY3t1ioeKDwupDMxd3WtgXF8h4RCSOskzdBr_jOGpGvRHcGR3UbLhwKewQputexjbg4sFaBwLnDh3fNNwZU61QYVJFXmyQJLbfUf-Pcv2BNIv/s1600-h/after-exercise.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9Op6NOyVbH44StyYuruXYhd9il2G3zWVY3t1ioeKDwupDMxd3WtgXF8h4RCSOskzdBr_jOGpGvRHcGR3UbLhwKewQputexjbg4sFaBwLnDh3fNNwZU61QYVJFXmyQJLbfUf-Pcv2BNIv/s320/after-exercise.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426114944289720802" border="0" /></a><br />But it's OK. It was a hard morning, but I felt better about it all two hours later, when my doctor told me I'd dropped 14 lbs since November. <br /><br />I hope J2 has some good news coming, too.<br /><br /><br /></div></div>Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-64490126535354689072009-12-31T08:56:00.000-08:002009-12-31T09:22:01.907-08:00Queen of the GymIf you follow the TV show "Bones" you are familiar with the phrase, "King of the Lab." It means you've risen to the top; that at least temporarily, you've done the best job of anyone at your work. You get the T-shirt.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpx0_oODot0ZjItuljtnnPmNe1P6FqrSYw5IhTv4OoIpiyPzbmRLhjWwTOfwmQWQV0A2IAced-JevMuGkpJcFBGj2wIBWNJcMK5SPKrJIHdDjd3YVbK68wmfikNaBK7QSsPJMWa9meOlv/s1600-h/king_of_the_lab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpx0_oODot0ZjItuljtnnPmNe1P6FqrSYw5IhTv4OoIpiyPzbmRLhjWwTOfwmQWQV0A2IAced-JevMuGkpJcFBGj2wIBWNJcMK5SPKrJIHdDjd3YVbK68wmfikNaBK7QSsPJMWa9meOlv/s320/king_of_the_lab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421446099214986050" border="0" /></a><br />I am officially proclaiming M "Queen of the Gym" for her extraordinary work with me last Tuesday, after which I have been sorer that I ever remember being at any time and for any reason in my <span style="font-weight: bold;">entire freakin'</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">life</span>. It hurts to get out of the car. It hurts to bend. It hurts to roll over in bed. It hurts to sit quietly in a chair with my arms folded, being reverent. She has definitely found some of my muscles that must have been wondering, "What about me? Don't you care enough to abuse me, too?" She cares. Passionately.<br /><br />Also, I am officially changing her blog persona from this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-2UKy-mLcpq9s9Egh1ffNilS9jyjdWiPpZrsBerQLQ0gDrzys0wzsTx8ddElWfWNU3cPXKIR2Z-fFk2A8sVM4Pil3enlP28iN8w0aE079OwgOWJfOHOt2apK5rsUmJZu4RQomJIZcv1Dl/s1600-h/precious-moments6.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 217px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-2UKy-mLcpq9s9Egh1ffNilS9jyjdWiPpZrsBerQLQ0gDrzys0wzsTx8ddElWfWNU3cPXKIR2Z-fFk2A8sVM4Pil3enlP28iN8w0aE079OwgOWJfOHOt2apK5rsUmJZu4RQomJIZcv1Dl/s320/precious-moments6.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421447194599374418" border="0" /></a>To this:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LfBhDdO43SwWftmlpw1of833cyhwJB1kDi1-PYXG_-HbNYp5VJmXuLnQ5zfxg9-qdIm-sc6FgN-jmFGtTISa1uIincD7AYsG1f-NSNmd9a9AqKDljcB3raNAOoFmjSzLifcdWW_ZN0tw/s1600-h/zSheDemon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LfBhDdO43SwWftmlpw1of833cyhwJB1kDi1-PYXG_-HbNYp5VJmXuLnQ5zfxg9-qdIm-sc6FgN-jmFGtTISa1uIincD7AYsG1f-NSNmd9a9AqKDljcB3raNAOoFmjSzLifcdWW_ZN0tw/s320/zSheDemon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421447377234691666" border="0" /></a><br />Don't thank me, M. You earned it, fair and square.<br /><br />I also have to just mention that M seems to have her own favorite torture device, sort of like J has "drop sets." M likes lunges. A lot. Apparently she also likes seeing old fat guys fall over.<br /><br />This is what a lunge looks like when someone who is strong and thin and graceful does it:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNVtZD4pVRNtg0Ib9tDV7cRLVuG3y7huoJCOu0X5YwF7PHerkxdAWitlEcCVnpv7miz5qahMSDkEec2hJFCQHcvol_SYpEe483MO76uQgSWzsomAjJ-ib87NLzOEj0Ls5-Ow5ehyphenhyphenyocUF/s1600-h/lunges.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNVtZD4pVRNtg0Ib9tDV7cRLVuG3y7huoJCOu0X5YwF7PHerkxdAWitlEcCVnpv7miz5qahMSDkEec2hJFCQHcvol_SYpEe483MO76uQgSWzsomAjJ-ib87NLzOEj0Ls5-Ow5ehyphenhyphenyocUF/s320/lunges.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421450764533625458" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And this is what it looks like when I do it:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQsNSyYOPDoZsAFxVjJ6-gG00tzC3HtsFTvWl85uUERCyyEfiWrgJ-PMzJ7BuQ41zJ-MLK6PBBVRBhDc-e_hV0RZCuzJZAclkV6y67rPxYWVVy_As7Qp18dIlSzOKFTNGZPgQ4UVMFtpZ/s1600-h/91+Building+Falling+Over.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQsNSyYOPDoZsAFxVjJ6-gG00tzC3HtsFTvWl85uUERCyyEfiWrgJ-PMzJ7BuQ41zJ-MLK6PBBVRBhDc-e_hV0RZCuzJZAclkV6y67rPxYWVVy_As7Qp18dIlSzOKFTNGZPgQ4UVMFtpZ/s320/91+Building+Falling+Over.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421451140529525362" border="0" /></a><br />That's what it feels like, too.<br /><br />Well, I have to go get ready for my hour with M. Should be fun. I'll bet she can't wait to show me "The ATOMIC Lunge." Can't wait.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-79263120658076851592009-12-26T14:30:00.000-08:002009-12-26T14:41:33.920-08:00Twitching<blockquote>He's in charge, he's the boss, the head man, the top dog, the big cheese, the head honcho...<br /><br /> -- Rex Kramer, Airplane!<br /></blockquote><br />They say near-death experiences heighten your appreciation of life, your family, the things that really matter. I now know that to be true. Because J2 left for a couple of weeks in Australia, lying on the beach, shrimp on the barbie, that sort of thing. A well deserved rest after being beaten up by his English professors, I say. But of course, the question remained, who would then put me through my paces? As it turned out M was out of town, too, so I got to work with J himself this week.<br /><br />My initial impression of J was that he really knew his business, and that impression was confirmed this week. In working with me, he discovered that my slow-twitch muscle fibers, the ones used for long-haul, endurance-type activity, were even worse off than my fast-twitch muscle fibers, the ones used for quick bursts of intense activity. Regular readers of this blog (Hi, Honey!) will recognize this as the reason that 10 is a much better number than 20. And so, J decided we needed to build up a lot more of those slow-twitch fibers, which means tearing down those current, wimpy slow twitch fibers to make way for the new ones.<br /><br />And that means drop-sets.<br /><br />For those of you unacquainted with medieval torture techniques, drop sets consist of doing a set at your usual weight (you know, the weight where you almost can’t do the last ones), then dropping the weight 10 or 20 pounds and doing another set to exhaustion, and then perhaps dropping the weight yet again and doing a third set to exhaustion. As body builder and coach Dane Fletcher observes,<br /><br /><blockquote>“Drops sets are very effective for two reasons. First, they require the muscle group to exert force using both the fast twitch fibers (from the heavy initial repetitions) and the slow-twitch muscle fibers (from the final high repetitions). Additionally, the overall volume of blood that is moved into the muscle group - the "pump" - fills that region of the body with oxygen- and protein-rich blood, which makes the muscle grow.”<br /><br /></blockquote>And there you have the two basics of my near-death experience in a nutshell: 1) ALL of my muscle fibers pretty much got trashed, and 2) it was a much more cardiovascular experience than usual. In short, I was pretty much freakin’ exhausted by the end. During my final set on a pretty low-key exercise, I actually stopped to rest after the first 10, and J told me I was done. I think even he knew I was seeing the bright light, and considering moving toward it.<br /><br />Now, I was exhausted after J2's first session with me too. As I waited for my wife to come and claim the body, I sat on a bar stool, drooping, with my eyes closed, thinking gray thoughts. But I managed to walk on my own power out to the car to meet her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6M0TMrYbO4GcivLU08bqPUyMksGy6KR4IJBFp82w3fM_oTbLPFUrciWbF4Jnwj30VH5Bx-FvSMVsbJr2diNV848AxW7rbH7b_KLglW-4dH55ePUkbZsRWFCV_bXHfTiANY-YCf6eP7MS/s1600-h/stool.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6M0TMrYbO4GcivLU08bqPUyMksGy6KR4IJBFp82w3fM_oTbLPFUrciWbF4Jnwj30VH5Bx-FvSMVsbJr2diNV848AxW7rbH7b_KLglW-4dH55ePUkbZsRWFCV_bXHfTiANY-YCf6eP7MS/s320/stool.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419676449903538066" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Tuesday, in what was likely my most manly and masculine moment yet, my wife came to pick me up and found me lying on the floor with my feet elevated. It might have even seemed that I was moaning a little, but I will continue to insist that it was just heavy breathing. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQclSp1ebreOPrG03OmJzFGAq4E-88giZD202xfnLQnMYvm9zquFOFvunuPipF6J8Yu_70byPx9KIS156kgQN5lUv2UrXzTaYjU4EGgxZI5IkV5eTii3VnBfb-Oaqd2NWENp7nILyjOu_x/s1600-h/back.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQclSp1ebreOPrG03OmJzFGAq4E-88giZD202xfnLQnMYvm9zquFOFvunuPipF6J8Yu_70byPx9KIS156kgQN5lUv2UrXzTaYjU4EGgxZI5IkV5eTii3VnBfb-Oaqd2NWENp7nILyjOu_x/s320/back.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419677046873748738" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, it is clear that J knows what he’s doing. The question is, have I fully realized just what I’m doing, yet?Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-90340541521504681562009-12-16T21:17:00.000-08:002009-12-16T21:42:11.748-08:0010 Is My Favorite NumberIn order for you to understand the carefully crafted argument of this post, I need to tell you that I'm a numbers guy, a math teacher by trade, and I've already explained how J2 is an English major (OK, admittedly he's an English major that could kick the crap out of me if he wanted to, but still....). So when it comes to numbers, I think it's clear which of us has the moral and intellectual authority.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGi5el2vtUp5t7KSElpMSn3yDPECCpDa1BsaoFwtYetT756L7DhposKpsta6FubxeYgzBYh0cajGyPE7uSThUKp-vtFktmzgrCvMIe_ZZhflwVV25yNppXDW_mhII97r2ZqEFnrkdwNk7i/s1600-h/numbers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGi5el2vtUp5t7KSElpMSn3yDPECCpDa1BsaoFwtYetT756L7DhposKpsta6FubxeYgzBYh0cajGyPE7uSThUKp-vtFktmzgrCvMIe_ZZhflwVV25yNppXDW_mhII97r2ZqEFnrkdwNk7i/s320/numbers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416074300129532290" border="0" /></a><br />And so, when I voice an opinion about numbers, I would think people would listen. For example, I think 10 is a very good number. A better number than 20, as a matter of fact. 20 is not a number to be trusted; it hangs around on street corners smoking and punching smaller numbers and kicking little old lady numbers. Meanwhile, 10 is back in the 'burbs, mowing lawns, picking up litter, doing its homework, listening to real music, not this stuff that kids are listening to nowadays. 10 has grit. It understands that money doesn't grow on trees, and it wouldn't jump off a cliff if all its friend numbers did. 10 is an Eagle Scout. 10 says "please" and "thank you."<br /><br />I do not think 20 is a very good number. 20 is Eddie Haskell. 10 is Richie Cunningham. Marsha Brady is 25, but that's another story.<br /><br />The main point is, that 10 is better than 20.<br /><br />The first 10 reps are much better than the second 10. And it's the second ten reps that turns 10 into 20. They're rotten. They hurt. I don't like them. But do you think I could convince J2 of that? No way. Not on your life. He'd just spout a bunch of English-major propaganda about the last one being the one that builds, or something, and laugh his evil little laugh, and keep counting. "11, 12, 13. . ." like something in an Edgar Allen Poe story.<br /><br />On the other hand, 20 is much better than 30. . . .Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-70251513363936566862009-12-14T20:44:00.000-08:002009-12-14T22:03:32.282-08:00Cardio a la CarteWomen don't eat.<br /><br />That is the premise of O. Henry's story, <span style="font-style: italic;">Cupid a la Carte</span>, and I for one believe it.<br /><br />For those of you unfamiliar with that story I will provide the highlights. Jeff Peters, a con man who traveled the western US in the late 1800's, stumbles upon Mame Dugan serving food in the family restaurant (a big tent, actually) in an Oklahoma boom town. He falls for her, and begins to court her. But she claims she will never marry. The problem is, she's seen too many men and as far as she can tell, they do nothing but eat:<br /><blockquote><br />"Do you know what a man is in my eye? He's a tomb. He's a sarcophagus for the interment of Beefsteak-porkchops-liver'nbacon-hamandeggs. He's that and nothing more. For two years I've watched men eat, eat, eat, until they represent nothing on earth to me but ruminant bipeds. They're absolutely nothing but something that goes in front of a knife and fork and plate at the table. They're fixed that way in my mind and memory. I've tried to overcome it, but I can't. . . ."<br /><br />"But, Mame," says I, "it'll wear off. You've had too much of it. You'll marry some time, of course. Men don't eat always."<br /><br />"As far as my observation goes, they do. . . ."<br /><br />"Don't girls ever--" I commenced, but Mame heads me off, sharp.<br /><br />"No, they don't. They nibble a little bit sometimes; that's all."</blockquote><br />Well, anyway, Jeff and another man vie for Mame's favor, but fail because, as Jeff so eloquently puts it, "For twenty-seven years I had been blindly rushing upon my fate, yielding to the insidious lures of that deadly monster, food. It was too late. I was a ruminant biped for keeps." The other man, Ed Collier, eventually makes some headway by starting a 49-day fast. He makes it six days. As he explains to Jeff, on his way to get some dinner, "Twas that girl. I'd give my life for her, but I'd endanger my immortal soul for a beef stew. Hunger is a horrible thing, Jeff. Love and business and family and religion and art and patriotism are nothing but shadows of words when a man's starving!"<br /><br />Eventually, Jeff leaves town and offers Mame a ride to a neighboring village. They get lost, get caught in a flood, and spend 3 days stranded with no food. Thoughts of food overtake them both, and eventually, without really being aware of it, Jeff speaks his dreams aloud:<br /><br /><blockquote>I guess I must have had my conscience pretty well inflicted with culinary meditations, for, without intending to do so, I says, out loud, to the imaginary waiter, 'Cut it thick and have it rare, with the French fried, and six, soft-scrambled, on toast.'<br /><br />Mame turned her head quick as a wing. Her eyes were sparkling and she smiled sudden.<br /><br />'Medium for me,' she rattles out, 'with the Juliennes, and three, straight up. Draw one, and brown the wheats, double order to come. Oh, Jeff, wouldn't it be glorious! And then I'd like to have a half fry, and a little chicken curried with rice, and a cup custard with ice cream, and--'</blockquote><br />So you see, in the end, Mame realized that men must actually get hungry like that all the time, and Jeff won her favor. It's a great story. You should read it. Everyone should read O Henry, as a matter of fact, but that's another blog entry.<br /><br />I tell you this because as part of my new health regiment, I am on a diet. Lots of protein (builds strong muscles), limited carbs and fat. (Translation: chicken breast and green vegetables. And protein shakes). So I'm hungry some, and like to eat regularly, and I am quite frankly amazed at how lackadaisical my wife and daughters can be about food. As I am dreaming of chimichangas drenched in chile verde, they put another round in the toaster and are good for 6 more hours. I just don't get it.<br /><br />A ruminant biped am I, for good and all. More's the pity. I don't think I can do any better in ending this than to quote ol' Jeff:<br /><br /><blockquote>It shows that the little table with the broken-legged caster and the imitation Worcester sauce and the napkin covering up the coffee stains is the paramount issue, after all, instead of the question of immortality or peace between nations.<br /><br /></blockquote>Amen, brother biped. Amen.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-16772465666405915492009-12-10T17:21:00.000-08:002009-12-10T17:57:34.284-08:00A Couch Potato, ISo I worked out again today; this was #4.<br /><br />The good news is that I got through all 20 reps of the military press the first time, without help.<br /><br />The bad news is that many other parts of the workout seemed worse than before. Oh, it's true that J2 switches up the routine in an effort to confuse me and keep me from finding out his evil plans. But my general feeling is that today was worse; I was wimpier. I was hoping that I was making a little progress, that things would be easier.<br /><br />And then, of course, it dawned on me that getting easier isn't part of J2's plans. The plan is to stack a little more on each time so that just when my muscles could handle what he dished out before, he sneaks a little more on and<insert sound="" of="" very="" disappointed="" muscle="" cells="" here=""> it isn't any easier. Ever.<br /><br />It reminds me of a method I once heard of to grow potatoes in limited space. See, you get an old tire, put it on the ground, and fill it about half full of soil. Then you plant 3 - 4 potatoes in there and cover it with a little more soil.<br /><br />The innocent potato then grows greenery above the soil and more potatoes below. Eventually, the greenery sneaks over the top of the tire. At this point, the potato is feeling pretty good about itself. Got some procreation going on, photosynthesis going well, everything looking up.<br /><br />Then, you stack another tire on top and fill it with soil.<br /><br />This is very discouraging to the potato.<br /><br />"Crap," the potato says.<br /><br />But the potato dutifully begins to grow, more greenery up and more potatoes below. Eventually its greenery is peeking out over the top of the second tire, and potatoes are filling in the soil below.<br /><br />"Well," the poor potato says, "It was tough but it was worth it. Multiplying, replenishing, doing everything a young ambitious potato plant should be doing."<br /><br />Another tire. More soil.<br /><br />"Dammit," the potato says.<br /><br />Well, you get the idea.<br /><br /></insert><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2aRHftBtZ80Yczqsp1CBej-Hkr8p3yWCY-LZsYV0-b8R2qDl-Q2UkDDujaz_WFTANrmliGoF-XiVkyYyMD3GPE8IQDAW2wc1QCztT4yVt1dMzga9oXtrcvi1VcorXDq0mIR5lEnW9bUp/s1600-h/potato3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 398px; visibility: visible ! important;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2aRHftBtZ80Yczqsp1CBej-Hkr8p3yWCY-LZsYV0-b8R2qDl-Q2UkDDujaz_WFTANrmliGoF-XiVkyYyMD3GPE8IQDAW2wc1QCztT4yVt1dMzga9oXtrcvi1VcorXDq0mIR5lEnW9bUp/s320/potato3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413788188044105746" border="0" /></a><br />The Innocent and Abused Potato Plant<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It seems like a great way to get potatoes, yes. But the poor potato plant is suffering a nervous breakdown by the time it's all over.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqYrwQ8Q7gzXyWqe-c73F0OrM-p7WX1qL2rgXB00gv0LDpqdQYAfALK49k6oCt__kkQIuxwCN7ommut4ZHq3kLZ11mlAWDOGxkPnMOI3Bv4azU12uOdmxtV_7U-bg2zEpko8zYywLeduae/s1600-h/nervous+potato.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; visibility: visible ! important;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqYrwQ8Q7gzXyWqe-c73F0OrM-p7WX1qL2rgXB00gv0LDpqdQYAfALK49k6oCt__kkQIuxwCN7ommut4ZHq3kLZ11mlAWDOGxkPnMOI3Bv4azU12uOdmxtV_7U-bg2zEpko8zYywLeduae/s320/nervous+potato.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413791350754992946" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is what J2 has in store for me. Another scoop of dirt every few days. There is no rest for the couch potato.<br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br /></div></div><insert sound="" of="" very="" disappointed="" muscle="" cells="" here=""><br /><br /></insert>Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-28991692804896021302009-12-10T15:45:00.000-08:002009-12-10T17:15:09.043-08:00Just My LuckWell, they say the family that lifts together, uhh, . . . .sifts together. No.<br />The family that pumps together uhh, ... jumps lumps together. No.<br /><br />The family that goes into a gym and lifts weights together until they want to puke, uhh, ... well, they're more likely to keep it up. Or so the theory goes.<br /><br />So the Divine Ms B is joining me on my odyssey. I think that's nice, actually. It really will make it easier if we're both trying to spend some time there. It will be more pleasant to go together.<br /><br />So the Divine Ms B has met with J, who has worked up an exercise program, and suggested she lose about, oh, say, 17.3% as much weight as I have to, and gotten her started working with her own personal trainer. We'll refer to the personal trainer in this case as M.<br /><br />Only here's the trouble, apparently:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MpxpZ9yMRL-cTLErG7bGyXi_dnUgJoi9gCG3DMpNOejkUithM4ovEBAKizUN-NFMeGs5yqBTNye90TcVojd7RAJmgi5MR6QGF0L2MyP8JlTQt5BBGJm6qFKcSU3wP01F1psy4nA_mxUl/s1600-h/goblin-l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px; visibility: visible ! important;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MpxpZ9yMRL-cTLErG7bGyXi_dnUgJoi9gCG3DMpNOejkUithM4ovEBAKizUN-NFMeGs5yqBTNye90TcVojd7RAJmgi5MR6QGF0L2MyP8JlTQt5BBGJm6qFKcSU3wP01F1psy4nA_mxUl/s320/goblin-l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413763384185261506" border="0" /></a><br />J2, my personal trainer<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHXcbKxXmYUSp2S25ZtHYw8VLPM8O5pv-5ApIeEIRD5tQzXsxMBMgAI8R_O8gG1H3z0EGBwn26MrQilHlK3_YkltafWTgccYE4lLwaQLdEzSADGqmXNiVLF-3JPN6v5SP7gipshxLkYDZ/s1600-h/precious-moments6.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 217px; height: 304px; visibility: visible ! important;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHXcbKxXmYUSp2S25ZtHYw8VLPM8O5pv-5ApIeEIRD5tQzXsxMBMgAI8R_O8gG1H3z0EGBwn26MrQilHlK3_YkltafWTgccYE4lLwaQLdEzSADGqmXNiVLF-3JPN6v5SP7gipshxLkYDZ/s320/precious-moments6.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413763599479411090" border="0" /></a><br />M, my wife's personal trainer<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">When I called the Divine Ms B after her first session to see how she felt, she said, "Oh, I was great. I really enjoyed it." Huh?!? ENJOYED it?!? I was a long way from "enjoyed it" at the end of my first session. I was still a long way from "really hated it"-- it would have had to improve some to get there. I was more like, "survived it," as I lashed out irrationally and tried to slap the person who asked. (I would have failed, of course, because I couldn't move my arms.)<br /><br />I can see it all: as I sit there, struggling through my last set of 20 military presses, and J2 says, "Ha! You feelin' that? That feel good?", barely suppressing his evil cackle, M is over there with my wife, saying, in hushed tones, "Does that feel fluffy enough? It should sort of tickle. Careful, now."<br /><br />It ain't fair.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-71444916201056781452009-12-03T16:49:00.000-08:002009-12-03T18:38:52.226-08:00Day 2 with J2OK, I was feeling pretty proud of myself yesterday, because I wasn't so sore, and because (at least this is my theory) the endorphins that must have flooded my body made me forget what last Tuesday was really like.<br /><br />In fact, I was sorer this morning than I was yesterday, sore enough to feel not quite so cocky about things. Sore enough to know that today's hour with J2 wasn't going to be much fun.<br /><br />And it wasn't a lot of fun. Three things stand out in my mind:<br /><br />1. I was much sorer today after the workout than last time. We're not talking "I got some battle wounds to tell about" sore. We're talking "I hope that young woman in the wheelchair will hold the door open for me" sore.<br /><br />2. J2 asked me today if I realized that when I was lifting weights I was really destroying muscle tissue so that it would be rebuilt. I did in fact know that, but compared to what I know now, what I knew before was purely academic, ivory tower stuff. For the first time, I lifted when I was already really sore, and I felt each individual muscle cell screaming and cursing and exploding.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXo0nMma6lcVsGVWubj2azheGqqbQ0Ac9P2HeOekZIkvQki0aL2zzWyoXyTzY5Vr_uoxLcgrwXfID3O7YJSjSTPtFBuyboJ3Y3qhTRk3g6jLINLpyhxduOlNXcH82F4bJeQLCIrA7ZamF3/s1600-h/angry_cell.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 163px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXo0nMma6lcVsGVWubj2azheGqqbQ0Ac9P2HeOekZIkvQki0aL2zzWyoXyTzY5Vr_uoxLcgrwXfID3O7YJSjSTPtFBuyboJ3Y3qhTRk3g6jLINLpyhxduOlNXcH82F4bJeQLCIrA7ZamF3/s320/angry_cell.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411190291301188002" border="0" /></a>So now I understand the process at deeper and much more painful level.<br /><br />3. I get the distinct feeling that if our goal is to build a lot of new muscle, we're just getting started with building the stuff that will support the main construction. To continue the metaphor, we're just moving in the trailer and the porta-potties, scoping out somewhere to set up the crane. That means I've only lived through the set-up phase. It's gonna get worse. I'm glad I got a few days to rest up.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-2265312830715263612009-12-02T09:29:00.000-08:002009-12-02T15:09:21.789-08:002-hydroxypropanoic acid<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ></span><blockquote><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >"Wikipedia is the best thing ever. Anyone in the world can write anything they want about any subject. So you know you are getting the best possible information.</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:times new roman;">" - Michael Scott, "The Office," Season 3, Episode 18.</span><br /></span></blockquote><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The issue of this post, of course, is Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness (DOMS), which I should certainly have today, in spades. Popular belief holds that lactic acid building up in the muscles causes this, but as I learned just this morning from Wikipedia</span>,</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> "</span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >this is a misconception as it has been shown elevated levels of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lactic_acid" title="Lactic acid">lactic acid </a>rarely persist after an hour of rest</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">." </span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Boy, do I feel like a sheep. I took contrast showers not once but twice yesterday, acting on the theory that they help get the lactic acid out of the muscles. Now I find out that lactic acid isn't even an issue. Apparently that was gone from my muscles before I even got done panting yesterday. </span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />But here's the thing: I think they worked.<br /></span><br />I have known DOMS before. I have been nearly incapacitated by DOMS, brought on by my own ego. You see, I was not always a four-eyed, out-of-shape fat person. No indeed. Back in the day, I was a four-eyed, out-of-shape skinny person. If today my portrait is reminiscent of a snowman,<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MN-YpV-orsnbWDWD95w7BvNXyfBJOtJVAVb42WKanga43Vn6XDdutzlg9YS3KSlx99yeRbLhOjzng1oS6rfs-ceexpd4yB-PtHh0hiENb4XCqxtemYF1DMd1LDfN44Heilo4RwvUWcQ_/s1600-h/Fatman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MN-YpV-orsnbWDWD95w7BvNXyfBJOtJVAVb42WKanga43Vn6XDdutzlg9YS3KSlx99yeRbLhOjzng1oS6rfs-ceexpd4yB-PtHh0hiENb4XCqxtemYF1DMd1LDfN44Heilo4RwvUWcQ_/s320/Fatman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410773190517748658" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /><br />back then it was more like a stick figure.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxFMhQ5jnBK3RDOaOi2ab9uRQGn8x250TylskrfcHRhlQOSMgc2izKSFOUsC0FdRARpupZSxWvI6LMwlGSAQRyZoH1yHWeAmCChQuWsAtlDJlP0bfEWGdK6MvoRWrAt3DRUyBR4Rkkx2p/s1600-h/Stickman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxFMhQ5jnBK3RDOaOi2ab9uRQGn8x250TylskrfcHRhlQOSMgc2izKSFOUsC0FdRARpupZSxWvI6LMwlGSAQRyZoH1yHWeAmCChQuWsAtlDJlP0bfEWGdK6MvoRWrAt3DRUyBR4Rkkx2p/s320/Stickman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410774051137245218" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Anyway, in my second year of college I got a new roommate who I'd gone to high school with, and one day he decided we should go lift weights. I wanted to be a good ol' boy, too, so I went along. And I kept up with him, because honestly he didn't look to be in that much better shape than I was. I wasn't about to come off looking like the wimp I was.<br /><br />The next day I could barely move. DOMS had come home to roost in a big way. I have lifted since, but never with such reckless abandon. So believe me when I tell you I know DOMS, and what I've got today isn't it.<br /><br />So maybe the contrast showers helped anyway, lactic acid or no. No less an authority than Wikipedia tells us that, </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >"Some recommend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contrast_showers" title="Contrast showers" class="mw-redirect">contrast showers</a> as a treatment, alternating between cold and hot water; as it may increase circulation." Whatever it was, I'm glad I did it. Because at least physically, I don't feel too bad today. Amazing.<br /><br />Tomorrow at 12, I will feel differently. But so far, so good.<br /></span>Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-61501898897391497102009-12-01T16:02:00.000-08:002009-12-01T17:34:33.828-08:00Session 1If I had chosen to report on my first training session soon after it ended, say about five hours ago (aside from the fact that I would not have been able to move my arms to type, or focus my eyes) I would have told you that it was even worse than I had feared.<br /><br />As I sat contemplating the experience and waiting for the Divine Ms B to come claim the body, I wished I had thought to weigh myself before I started. I reasoned that if I could somehow compensate for the weight of the sweat I so prodigally left on every surface of the gym, I could actually scientifically establish the masses of my Self Esteem and my Will to Live, since both were completely absent from my body by the end of the session.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr557_VY26Ty5ylrDlH0m2gl_IVEML_vzFmzo_i2qGfewh5etFsz8wpO1ccGKbsM_qA_uCGqWJKeovZuXgYj5gvY2Dlv-Xib9l5qihIX2C9g3_8TpWTdz5diWY4gO52FYx8f9KoYZ0x5Zp/s1600/moom_exhausted04.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr557_VY26Ty5ylrDlH0m2gl_IVEML_vzFmzo_i2qGfewh5etFsz8wpO1ccGKbsM_qA_uCGqWJKeovZuXgYj5gvY2Dlv-Xib9l5qihIX2C9g3_8TpWTdz5diWY4gO52FYx8f9KoYZ0x5Zp/s320/moom_exhausted04.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410443789849155282" border="0" /></a><br />J assigned J2 to be my personal trainer. My early thinking was that J2 is a likable young man, who laughed at all my self-deprecating jokes and kept up a jolly banter with me while I struggled through the routines. It is amazing how he can talk and count to 20 at the same time; probably a necessary skill in his job. At the beginning of the hour I really admired this numerical multi-tasking. Toward the end, I have to admit, it wasn't as much fun.<br /><br />Another thing I have to say about J2 is that his sense of humor sort of disappeared as we progressed through the hour. As just one example, when we were about 3 minutes away from the full 60, and I was wishing for death, he said to me, "Now, lie down here on your back and we'll just finish off with some crunches." See, that was hilarious. It was a perfect opportunity for him to look at me and say, "Psyche!" or "Punked!" or "Gotcha!" or something. He might even have gotten a smile out of me. But no. Such was the absolute degradation of J2's sense of humor that he actually expected 20 crunches out of me. Twice. (Disclosure statement: It could be he only got 35 out of me. I can't say for sure whether I did 20 or just 15 on the second set; my mind was busy plotting revenge, and I had long since quit listening to his infernal counting.)<br /><br />Of course, I understand now that I've had time to rehydrate and think a little. It turns out that J2 is a university student at a certain local university where I happen to be a professor. Now we are not at all in the same fields, mine being mathematics education and his being comparative literature. We seldom would even walk through each others' buildings. But J2 made the mistake of admitting that he's going through a perfect storm of papers and projects being due right now, and even indicated that he might be a little frustrated with some of his professors. So along comes this nondescript fat guy, a PROFESSOR with pitchfork and barbed tail and everything, the Good Dr. Effigy, just <span style="font-style: italic;">begging</span>, it seems, to be punished on behalf of his entire profession. I'm sure J2's feeling a lot better about school tonight.<br /><br />On the other hand, my students will likely suffer for his actions tomorrow in class. I will walk in, wincing at my sore muscles, and there will be 20 little J2's looking up at me. Wow. And me with a midterm left to grade, and a final exam to write. This can't end well.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Xctsm9iQ7t9LQZRXWgq5JNVUH-zOPR8b8283tLnrTiVffcxWWj2aU2iEy3PbvlqWun2GywiU4uKa4D0HsEbTrF0xUM2QpZvg5ivNSM42GnDaknzX-1YZ3g0XseQLFwuvO5xpVvvksiqJ/s1600/devil.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Xctsm9iQ7t9LQZRXWgq5JNVUH-zOPR8b8283tLnrTiVffcxWWj2aU2iEy3PbvlqWun2GywiU4uKa4D0HsEbTrF0xUM2QpZvg5ivNSM42GnDaknzX-1YZ3g0XseQLFwuvO5xpVvvksiqJ/s320/devil.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410444010775422386" border="0" /></a><br />Me, as seen by J2. Or J2, as seen by me.<br /></div><br />Anyway, I took a hot-cold-hot-cold-hot-cold-hot shower, which is supposed to pump some of the lactic acid out of my muscles, ate a turkey sandwich, and went to work, and now I'm feeling better. Tomorrow will tell how well the shower worked. J2 told me I'd pretty much hate him tomorrow. We'll see.<br /><br />I have another session scheduled Thursday. I'm still planning on going.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-73022020619239277382009-12-01T09:16:00.000-08:002009-12-02T15:09:50.553-08:00We, Who Are About to Lift, Salute YouOK, it's not like my whole life is flashing before my eyes. But this is definitely weird. I started this blog to record progress, actually. But a few whimpers, like this one, will probably find their way onto its fabled pages, too.<br /><br />T minus 45 minutes. See ya on the other side.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2744819293229521045.post-72323479469616707582009-11-26T05:46:00.000-08:002009-11-26T07:18:33.603-08:00And Thus It BeginsOK, it's been a long time since I read the Odyssey in high school. And I admit that I get Odysseus mixed up with Jason and the Argonauts, who were looking for the Golden Fleece or the Holy Grail or something. There's probably a little bit of Oedipus mixed in there, too. Senior English kind of all mashes together in my mind.<br /><br />But I know an odyssey when I see one, and boy howdy am I starting one now.<br /><br />I went to see J yesterday on the advice of my surgeon. My surgeon has seen an MRI of my back, and can see the writing on the wall, so he sent me to talk to J.<br /><br />J is a personal trainer.<br /><br />Yes, I know, <span style="font-weight: bold;">ME</span> and a personal trainer. It boggles the mind, staggers the imagination, makes our heads hurt, the phrase "personal trainer" when the "person" in question is me. But nonetheless the fact is: J is setting up a personalized program of exercise and food choice that will transform my life and hopefully my body.<br /><br />(I will pause here to explain to those who don't know me why this concept is so difficult to grasp, and it can best be done by stealing shamelessly from one of my heroes, Daniel Pinkwater. He once described how to draw of a picture of him and my version of it would go something like this: "Draw a big round circle. Then draw a little circle sitting on top of the big circle. Put some glasses on the little circle. Put a little mustache under the glasses." Hopefully you get the picture. If not, and you happen to know the Homestar Runner crew, think Strong Sad.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXJ-cenq2Q06IuNpf45McIf9vxckH4OXJXhZ4oGIMRa9O3NCdZr1csgDdeEHAbnMXzhDyM_CDWPNnVpO973sq9OalG27ToOdc4SoXAx6DF4aRv871f909aWwN_9iqPuiHI97SJZfHtis4/s1600/pink1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXJ-cenq2Q06IuNpf45McIf9vxckH4OXJXhZ4oGIMRa9O3NCdZr1csgDdeEHAbnMXzhDyM_CDWPNnVpO973sq9OalG27ToOdc4SoXAx6DF4aRv871f909aWwN_9iqPuiHI97SJZfHtis4/s320/pink1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424466173605986" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJxfJfRMtt9LzIvtOADDuvFkKdnApKeqcsdy2Wg00IhZcKAe261ny1OQR2qnaSFx2zCvxTbAK9OmFV53GbSO7FXmQ5ZX46NMxsfGbxqCp4JGBA6QIB_kt2eQeM4L1UFAREJGYnsqVQJSu/s1600/StrongSad_AndyWarhol.PNG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJxfJfRMtt9LzIvtOADDuvFkKdnApKeqcsdy2Wg00IhZcKAe261ny1OQR2qnaSFx2zCvxTbAK9OmFV53GbSO7FXmQ5ZX46NMxsfGbxqCp4JGBA6QIB_kt2eQeM4L1UFAREJGYnsqVQJSu/s320/StrongSad_AndyWarhol.PNG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424562311586978" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, I had my evaluation yesterday. For part of it, J put me in front of a mirror with my shirt off and explained what we were going to work on, and how things would change. He was pretty cool about it. I could tell he was trying hard to think of some nice, encouraging things to say. "Now, you have to sort of see through the fat, here, but see this muscle group?" or "Well, your bicep has good connection (good <span style="font-weight: bold;">connection?!?</span>) but it's a little underdeveloped." or "Well, you've got great calves. If you lost a little of the fat, you could see that." And of course, looking at my midsection, "Well, this is pretty self-explanatory." These comments were occasionally interrupted by comments like, "Wow, I'm really surprised you haven't had more trouble in your lower back." "What's amazing is that you haven't pulled a hamstring, as tight as they are." "Are you sure you're still alive?"<br /><br /><br />And then he moved my flab around a little to show me how it would look when there were muscles there instead. I must admit I was impressed. He really seemed to know what he was doing, and he claimed he had never had a failure yet. A couple of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">hard </span>cases (and here, I probably just imagined the sideways glance at my biceps) but never an impossible case. So I left encouraged. Fired up, even.<br /><br />So -- today, November 26 2009, I'm at 34.1% body fat, that's about 90 lbs worth. J says if I drop 50 lbs, get down to about 212, I'll feel like a "million bucks." I believe him. I'm looking forward to my first session with the weights next Tuesday<br /><br />I just can't believe I'm doing it.Steverinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04605682218371036576noreply@blogger.com0