I saw this guy watering his lawn a couple weekends ago. He was a couple notches above Normal Guy but he wasn't weird chiseled, shaved-chest cockhead. He was normal in that he was doing a chore and his hair was blowing around, but not intentionally gel'ed into perfect messiness. He was wearing long baggy cargo shorts, barefoot and no shirt on a beautifully built, but still somehow Normal-Guy chest. Like he was lying on the couch and during halftime of a basketball game he thought, Shit maybe I should do a chore, like one chore at least today. So, when I saw him he was slightly bent over watering under some bushes. I almost crashed the car. He was gorgeous in his normalness but you could tell he had put some time into his beautifully built, but not too perfect body. And right in that second as I swerved to straighten out the car, I thought I want to go to the gym. I want to work out more.
I was in the best shape of my adulthood last October, before The Holiday Gorge, when I was taking real kickboxing where they tape your hands and put gloves on you and you get to open a can of whoop-ass on a bag. It was mind-blowingly hard. Want-to-puke hard. I loved it. It was fun and different. AAaaannnddd, only taught by the most gorgeous dude ever. Gorgeous in that he was close to 40, 6'3" and he was a chiseled, shaved-chest cockhead; black belt in something, came in third in the Ironman, leapt tall buildings while filing his manly, lightly buffed nails. And you could see some grey in his hair. Hot. So hot I barely knew his name because I just called him Hot Stuff. Practically to his face. He flirted so hard with me that I literally couldn't keep up. Usually I am very game for some this-is-going-nowhere flirting, but holy shit this guy was a pro. I arrived early to the gym once and watched Hot Stuff spar some guy in judisu. After he annihilated the guy, he looked at me, sweating, kneeling, panting, barefoot and in a twisted gi, and he said quietly, "You wanna be next?" I may have shouted, "GOTTA GO" before I sprinted to my assigned punching bag. Other times, in front of me he would wipe sweat off his brow with the bottom of his shirt exposing a fat-free 12 pack with a baby treasure trail. And when I would look up all flustered -- forgetting the boxing combo -- he would just burrow a stare into me. I awkwardly would look away reminding myself, He's gotta do this to everyone considering some of the bimbo stripper types that come in here. Which was true because the gym was owned by a guy that also owned a local strip joint called Captain Cream's. I'm talking high brow here. Anyway, I was so stressed and thrilled by Hot Stuff and tried to show off so much that I got into sick shape. Then Hot Stuff got transferred to another gym and the guy they brought in as a replacement was boring as shit, not to mention not hot. I stopped going all together telling everyone I was burnt out from kickboxing.
Lately, I started taking again a dance-type “kickboxing” class from a teacher I like to call Cheerleader On Crack. I used to judge Cheerleader On Crack because she was the bubbliest, blondest, most energetic and most adorable little piece of Orange County perfection. But after one really hard class and after I got over my hateration, I realized she was the most kick-ass teacher only ever. She’s a teaching genius. She has us all under her spell. She's the type that will pinpoint the one grandma in the back of the room who's had a shitty day out of 5,000 people in her class and say, "Great energy Mildred." She just knows your name like a jedi master training us for a Cheerleader On Crack Tournament. The first time she called out my name -- and I stand in the back of the class for fear of getting round-housed by the first-chair kickboxers -- I was floored. I was like, Did she just say my name? That's amazing -- mainly because of the fact that she had enough wind to still speak after her gut -wrenching combo.
And then there’s my new love, Salsa Cardio with my girl, Terri the Wig Wearer. I can’t really express how much I love her.
My goal is to get a least four days of cardio going and two days of strength training because there is no way women can not strength train especially as we get older. Recently, I went to a "Super Sculpt Class" where you lift weights in an aeobics class setting. WEAK. That's what I am. WIZ-NEAK. The 80 year old lady to my right said, Do you want me to help you with the 3lbs dumbbells? And the 5 year old to my left observed, Take breaks when you need . . . Actually, there was no 80 year old and no 5 year old and no one said anything to me because I could tell everyone in the class was struggling within the realms of their own weakness whether they were wrestling with the 5lb weights or lifting 20lbs barbells but looking at themselves in the mirror wondering why their ass was still sagging 2 inches below where it used to in high school.
I’ve realized - again, because I'm sure I've had this realization at least 432x's in my life -- that I don't need to work out to lose weight; I need to work out for my mental health. I need it to not slip into any kind of depression. I need it for stress management. I need it to feel good. I need to do it now and always.