Day 81: Begin Anew, Shoulders, Chest, Triceps.

Just like how "Rosebud was his childhood sled", "Kevin Spacey was Kaiser Souzai", "Bruce Willis was a ghost", "Pauly Shore was never funny", and "Edward Norton was Brad Pitt", Coachella offered me a profound realization that was always present, always lurking in every scene in my life, but I just had to wait for the 'big reveal'. I was in the airplane on the way home listening to Jonsi, looking out over the large, winding expanse of the Rocky Mountains, when it hit me like a portly fallen angel, I began to cry and, to this day, I am not entirely sure why nor did the dude wearing the Ed Hardy shirt beside me. It was not something theoretically functional, but some fundamental emotional understanding about how much easier this whole thing can be. To explain it would be about as fruitful as telling someone who has never smoked weed, what it's like: you can use some words to describe the feeling, but they are about as useful for the endeavour as trying to dig a hole with a straw or have sex with a condom. Carl Sagan came close, but I am no Carl Sagan. I did, however, write this article on the experience that might shed some light on what the hell I am talking about.

Vague, weird spiritual revelations aside, I got viciously gang-beaten by the four-headed hydra of sleep-deprivation, heat-exhaustion, vodka, and Chef Boyardee. 

 Step One - Put Can in Searing Hot Sun, Step Two - Wait 15 Minutes, Step Three - Enjoy

I felt like John McClane at the end of every Die Hard going into this work-out. I was beaten, bruised, battered, and the heavy underdog against an evil non-descript foreigner and his platoon of equally foreign henchmen, but I knew justice had to be served no matter what. All my body wanted to do was shakily lift a vodka bottle to my mouth in the peaceful darkness of my bed. It reminded me I was only one small balding man with little to no military training up against a well-organized international group of highly-skilled mercenaries. I, in turn, reminded it that I represent the perfect form of escapism: the age-old story of the down-trodden little guy that stands up to the powerful, accomplishing the seemingly impossible. It's the same ol' story except David had stones, Rudy had footballs, and McClane had beaters, bullets, and bravado by the bushel-load.

Fuck! I should have listened to my body, I should have realized I am not a fictional God-like character like John McClane, I am the 40-something, short balding Bruce Willis. This work-out sucked. My sweat was vodka, my tears felt like blood, my muscles felt like they were being shredded like crumbly old cheddar, my brain felt like it was being pulled out of my ears with pliers, and my anus felt like it was leaking liquidy fecal matter. (Here's a fun game: guess which one isn't a simile!). In any event, I got through it...barely; at the last second I was able to ignite a line of jet fuel that I happened to fall beside by dramatically, but inefficiently tossing my lighter onto the ground, all the while thinking of a clever thing to say to no one in particular as the  plane that was carrying all my hopes of finishing P90X attempted to fade away into the darkened horizon.

Highlights: Laying there after the work-out, belly-down, star-fished on the floor, unable to move even though my testicles were firmly implanted in a make shift vise-grip composed of the hard-wood floor and my pelvis. 

State of Mind: This work-out sucked. Don't get me wrong. But, I immediately realized it's all worth it after loading my vacation pics. As I put them in my computer I compared some of the pics to last year's Spring Break pics (sorry, this might make your eyes bleed), 

This weird creature washed up on the shores of Puerto Plato; he made bad jokes and thrusted a lot

If you shaved my chest I would look like a 9-year old girl (with a gnarly shin-tan). And, yes, I still have the speedo, and, yes, it is an extra-small. Fast-forward one year: same ocean, same pose, but with far less eye-bleeding,

Rating: P77X