Day 36: Shoulders, Triceps, and Chest

Deep Impact. Today, I had the most worthwhile, deserved, necessary, but devastating hangover of my life. Monday March 1st has become the unofficial National Hangover day. Greasy spoons from coast to coast were ladling lard, eggs, and sodium-laced pork product in numbers that would make an Alabaman grandma proud. The 2010 Olympics in Vancouver were declared a success today, as well as our national sewage infrastructure - toilets from Cole Harbour to Moosejaw to Victoria were as overworked as an 11 year-old Nike employee. En masse Canada felt like John Daly does everyday. All that being said, we wouldn't have it any other way.

The moment Millard and I awoke, we began discussing the impossibly painful prospect of having to do P90X. (The last sentence might lead some to an awful, heart-wrenching vomit-inducing conclusion; let me clarify, we actually began discussing this after we got out of our respective beds which we have not and do not share with each other).

Around 7 o'clock we finally anted-up, grabbed our puke buckets and descended into my extremely versatile basement apartment, which operates as a living space, a workout area, and, today, a rape room. I my as well have put a ball-gag in my mouth as I turned the TV on. We were simply too hungover and dehydrated (mostly from tearing up the 782 times the greatest goal in Canadian hockey history was replayed). In, short, we have never been less prepared.

To say we struggled through today's workout would be like saying Battlefield Earth is not one of John Travolta's best movies: it's a massive understatement. I am convinced it wasn't a seizure that caused Travolta's son Jett to hit his head on the bathtub, but the hand of karma getting redemption for making us sit through this aborted fetus of a movie. (I apologize for the latter sentence - 'aborted fetus' is an inappropriate comparision since this would probably be a compliment to Travolta considering the fact he and Tom Cruise most likely devour worchestshire and dijon slathered aborted fetus at sundown in order to rid themselves of dead-alien souls).

Point being, it was tough. However, we were able to hold off the vomit long enough to work our muscles into failure. So, yeah, P90X raped us today, but we didn't cry and whine about it; we beared down and asked for a reach around. (I am not sure what that means, but we did good).

Highlights: "Great googley moogley, these boys are some sad sacks of shit. But, by golly, they take a licking and keep on ticking; take a beatin' and keep on needin'...more and more. The world could use more boys like these." - Wise black janitor from Rudy.

State of Mind: If we can drag our sorry asses to work-out on today of all days then our commitment can simply not be doubted. We will see this through and eventually be able to look good in see-through (fish-net?) shirts.

Rating: P45X