Day 5: Kempo X

My body is empirically the same as it was before; yet, through the distorting lens of my perspective it looks rock-hard and unstoppably fuckable (as opposed to doughey and unstoppably unlovable). I have no idea why - it may be that I am anticipating my future marble-statue physique. I actually believe in the potential of my body to not look shitty anymore. I have been pouring over possible scenarios in the spring where I can take my shirt off. Most of what I decide to do in late-April and May will be based on the likelihood of being able to take my shirt off. I am going full-McConaughey. Costume parties, cottages, brawls: I am down. Weddings, BarMitvahs, Baby Showers, establishments with shirt policies: total waste of my time. If you are my friend, plan things accordingly.

I went solo again today. And I fuckin' killed it. Maybe this specific routine is fairly laid back or I am getting better, but I got through every exercise like I was in a 'Rocky' montage. I am buying a grey tracksuit tomorrow.

Highlights: Did not take a single unalotted water-break. I also did not remember that a blender works better with the top on.

State of Mind: I feel great - there was no hesitation today and I breezed through it. (However, I have to write the LSAT in a week and working out for an hour everyday has cut into my time; whatever, last time I checked you don't need a law degree to become a physical fitness instructor).

Rating: P90X!

Day 4: Shoulders and Arms

I woke up this morning with every muscle-fibre in my body screaming in pain. If I hadn't been doing P90X and woke up feeling like this, I would think I was dying. Nevertheless, I gathered up the courage and stumbled into GNC walking like a complete weirdo. I looked like either I had a bone-growth disorder or was really thugging. I bought a big ol' jug of Banana Berry Blast Whey Iso Burst protein powder. OOOOhhh Yaaaa! Apparently, this stuff will totally rip my bod' or at least that's what the lady at GNC told me. She also told me I needed all these other sorts of vitamins and supplements that if I bought, I would have to put on lay-away or sell my car, which my dad owns making it sort of tough. So, that didn't make sense plus I just couldn't take health advice from an out-of-shape middle-aged woman with her gut hanging precariously over her belt just waiting to bust through her shirt and slap her thighs. There was also a giant bull-moose of a man that worked there - whatever he told me to buy, I probably would have bought. "If you think this 85 dollar slab of GNC-approved cheddar cheese will work, I don't see why I shouldn't buy it". In any event, I waddled out with the protein powder - $55.85: I am officially pot-committed. 

Millard had to bail on the work-out today. I brought some weights from home - 40s, 30s, and 20s. Unfortunately, the heavier weights weren't going to be of any use for most of the program that consists of, as per usual, a crippling onslaught of different types of curls and tricep exercises. They're simply, at this juncture, too heavy for us lil' dudes. He also had to leave for Vermont at 8 - so, no demerit points. Alas, I trucked on solo...a lone ranger ready to get his guns-a-blazing.

Highlights: I smacked my blood deprived nub of a weiner with the 20 pound weight, but completed the set. Isomax Whey Burst Extreme! 

State of Mind: I was basically at par (read: mildly sub-par) for the first half of the workout. I started to have some serious muscle fatigue in the latter half and some lighter weights would have helped. But, I crunched out 4-5 reps, which, in the end, might be even more helpful. I don't feel sick, I don't feel like quitting; I feel like a virile stud-bull ready to sow his seed. That is, I feel strong and sexy y'all. Well, not categorically 'strong' and 'sexy', but 'stronger' and 'sexier' than I once was way back on Monday. 

Rating: I kerfuffled (read: quagmired) some of the work-outs and experienced some disheartening muscle fatigue, but I fuckin' gave er' all I could Captain. P60X + 5 for extreme effort = P65X!

Day 3: Ab Ripper X and Cardio X

In the last two days I have not been able to shower anything above my nipples. I applied deodorant on to my lower ribs this morning. It also took me 15 minutes to get out of my new bed, which is my couch that I become stranded on at night. Every movement I make hurts; the idea of masturbating is as nauseating as eating a mayonnaise sandwich. But, by far my biggest enemy is clothes. I spent the entire day in my underwear studying for my LSAT until 5 when I had to get dressed for my work-out. I painstakingly applied my board-shorts and Moosehead t-shirt and trudged upstairs to Millard's place. Upon entering his place I realized P90X is my 'Undertaker' or 'Hulk Hogan' and I'm some schlub with a generic name like 'Scott Thompson' clad in a plain red speedo stumbling into the arena with no music, smoke or hope.

Our wine-jug weights wouldn't cut it for our scheduled Arms and Shoulder X work-out so we made some last minute changes and subbed in Cardio X. We had a new addition to our work-out troupe. Her name is Stacey and she is Millard's girlfriend. She came prepared and scared the hell out of us with her grunts. If you closed your eyes it was like you were watching a female tennis match.

Highlights: Millard's cute, petite, blonde, bubbly girlfriend is much stronger than me. (And Millard). She also looks mildly retarded when she attempts to do squat-runs...it's like she is seizuring while drowning.

State of Mind: The pain I bitched about earlier is a good pain. In my last entry I called these work-out routines BDSM sessions. That statement accidentally included a lot of insight into this whole process: it is extremely painful during and after, but it is a positive pain, a pain I welcome, a pain that reminds me I am doing my job properly. In short, I feel good.

Rating: It was like a recent Eddie Murphy movie: all-around sub-par effort, but you can tell there is a lot of untapped talent there because you've seen it in action before (I used to be an amazing cross-country runner, soccer player, hockey player; you name it, I was good at it). P53X.

Day Two: Plyometrics

Fuckkk. That's all I want to scribble down right now and, honestly, it sums up everything about day two. However, I want to write this thing within 30 minutes after every BDSM session I have to go through; so I will squeeze out some precious sentences for my throngs of eager readers. 

Millard arrives home from work at 5. At around 4 o'clock I started to feel the fear - fear I haven't felt since I was suspended from Junior Kindergarten and had to wait til' my Dad got home from work to tell him. (Not to liken Millard to my father; even though they both have beards and are unnecessarily cute). Each tick of the clock made my new tendinitis stricken elbow (injury from yesterday) swell with anticipation. I couldn't handle the fear - it came down to a decision: fight or flight. The fight instinct was smothered by a lack of available planning - tackling Millard as he got out of his car probably wouldn't solve anything. So, I did what I normally do when the stress of life and expectation becomes to much: I went to Loblaws, pretended to shop, and ate free fried chicken. As I chomped down on my anti-anxiety medicine and pretended to contemplate the advantages of Lavender Lilac laundry detergent versus Spring Morning Dew, I realized the era of procrastination and fear that has thus far defined my life was over. I was ready. It was go time. Goddamnit, I love the smell of fried chicken in the afternoon.*

I blasted through the door with a purpose. Millard could tell I was ready and, oh boy, I could tell he was too - the kid looked like he had fire coursing through his veins and had a look of determination that I can only imagine matched the look Nelson Mandela had as he stepped out of his prison cell. We donned our matching boardshorts, moved the furniture back, took our socks off and slammed down on the play button...together. The first few minutes is a basic warm-up: we easily got through that along with all our roomates calling us 'gay'. Immature peons, this is the work-out routine of the gods. After that it was a tyrannical onslaught of every sort of squat known to man: jump squats, jack squats, rock-star squats, leap-frog squats, monster-tire lift squats, fuck-your-shit-and-want-to-go-back-into-your-mom's-uterus-squats etc. And then you do it all again, backwards. Just fuckin' water-board me; this shit is awful. It was insane, but we made it, and we're better people for it. You know how they say that 'war bonds people together for life'; well, P90X probably bonds you well into the afterlife.

Highlights: I actually blacked-out...and kept going. I blacked-out in the air on a 180 jump squat, landed, looked at Millard empty and bug-eyed, came too, shook it off, and just kept rolling. Epic commitment. I already feel more courageous than almost everyone I know and it's only day two.

State of Mind: It was tough, but we felt really good afterwards. Granted, Millard's eyes were so bloodshot that lil' drips of blood were almost coming out, but, all in all, we rock n' rolled n' only slightly stumbled through day two.

Rating: Did it all with an extra 4 breaks: P75X.

(Millard said he wanted to add to this whenever he can. This is what he sent me, "I have blisters and they suck".)

*Far-reaching reference no one will get.

Day 1: Chest and Back and Ab-RipperX

Millard comes down as I polish off my pre-game meal of eggos with peanut butter and black coffee. He looks high, but claims he is prepared. I offer him a one-a-day vitamin before we begin; he declines noting they expired in August of 2008. I take my fourth of the day. We begin with high knee-slaps and giggle at how gay we must look in our matching board-shorts. 10 minutes in and we feel fuckin' great. Our work-out instructor then claims that the warm-up is over and we are ready to begin the actual work-out. We look at eachother confused...

The rest of the work-out felt like various enhanced interrogation techniques. P90X does not fuck around. If someone is ever forced to do P90X, I don't care what sort of complex legal justifications you want to make, it is fuckin' torture. It throws all sorts of different push-ups at you: diamond, wide-set, standard, decline, dive-bomber, gut-wrencher, soul-crusher, colon-cleanser etc. It did not go well; I am just proud that neither of us black-outed for that long. We probably did a good solid P32X. The rest of the 58 generally consisted of us rolling on the ground yelling "extreme". 

Highlights: I have low-celings in my apartment and when the workout began with some jogging on the spot, Millard smacked his head and spent the next three minutes being totally unextreme on the ground. We also had no weights, so we filled some wine jugs with water that probably topped out at a mind-boggling 4 pounds. 

 State of Mind: Surprisingly, I feel great. It was slighly embarassing, but fun. Doing this with someone exponentially raises your chances for success. 

Rating: P32X