Day 79: Plyometrics

This will be our last rendezvous with the beast of cardio-burden known as plyometrics. I can remember our very first meeting with plyometrics - it felt like the wedding scene in Kill Bill. There we were, doe-eyed and excited on our second day, ready to get into P90X shape. The future held so much promise; it was supposed to be a blessed union between the will, the mind and the body. I was finally going to get into shape. About 15 minutes in, the first shotgun blast bounded throughout the room: I was 10 seconds into some sort of ungodly, sadistic squat type and my thighs were hit...hard. I struggled up onto my feet, eyes rolling around in their sockets, my heart crying and pleading for me to stop, and then time-slowed, I tried to warn him, but it was to no avail. Millard absorbed a point-blank slug in the right thigh, crumpling to one side, regaining his balance slowly, gritting his sparkly-white teeth, and continuing on. The rest of the work-out we felt like every person in that quant, Texan, church on that fateful sunny afternoon; taking every shot, every slug, every life-silencing knife wound, but we kept on going like some Terminator Tony Montana. We had the resolve of champions, but the cardio of Roseanne. 

Day 79 is a different story. Plyometrics is Carl Weathers in Predator and I am the Predator! It is those poor Iraqis caught in the night-vision of an overhead helicopter and I am the sadistic, scared, 18 year old manning the 80 cal.; it is the Leafs and I am an opposing team; it is a baseball and I am the mysterious monster dog in the Sandlot; it is unsuspecting young gay men in Milwaukee during the early 90's and I am Jeffrey Dahmer; it is constructive, rational political discourse and I am the American political institution; it is John Bobbit's weiner and I am Lorraina; it is Pauly Shore's career and I am the year 2000; it is Kristen French and I am Paul, errr, the point is, we can easily handle plyometrics now. 

In my adult life, although many might argue hasn't technically started, I have never been in better cardio-shape. I used to fake orgasms due to my cardio limits. Well, that's not true, I have the Cheddar Bob from 8-Mile syndrome: I shoot myself in the leg before I can get it out of my pants. Point being, in 79 days I have turned myself from a dude that hated walking to the corner store because of how taxing it was on his body to a guy that leisurely runs 13 k. 90 days and you'll be in the 90th percentile for fitness levels amongst your peers...at least.

Highlights: When we did this before it was complete silence, occasionally punctuated by coughs, weezes, and low grumbling "fuck mes". On this one, Millard and I carried on a conversation about the merits of the old G.I. Joe's versus the bunk-ass doll-sized one's that look like action figures from a gay porn called the "Gulf of Tom Kin".

State of Mind:  I feel like a strong, powerful, take-no-shit G.I. Joe in the actual Gulf of Tonkin.

Rating: P90X.