Day 73: Shoulders and Arms and Ab Ripper X

I could write about today's workout, which I have done upwards of 15 times, and tell you how much better I am at it than the first time I did it. "No way, you did the same thing 15 times and now you're better at it?!" Yeah, it's a pretty basic law that if you do something 15 times, your ability in that particular activity will increase. There are some exceptions to the rule like cricket, which I'm pretty sure you need a P.H.D. in set theory to understand or sex. I can honestly say I have not gotten any better at 'the sexin' than the first time I did it. I'm not insulting myself, I was just that good. You know how some people have a natural, god-given (yes, those can both occur at the same time) talent to do super-difficult math questions and they have no answer for this ability, no explanation, and have not undergone any rigorous training for it. They simply claim that their brain spits out some shapes and they interpret those shapes as representing various numbers and, voila!*, they have their answer to the square root of 999 876 674.7890. I'm like these guys, but with fucking. I'm a sex-savant, a sultry swinger of seduction, a purrrveyor of punani punishment; my brain just immediately spits out all the right answers and moves, directing my hips into some sort of multiple-orgasm-inducing satanic salsa. A few times -- at parties, restaurants, movie theatres and the like -- my powers have been activated by, say, a kiss or that scene in Wild Things**, or Graham's sister or imagining Graham's sister in that scene in Wild Things, and, bam!, I black-out and when I come to it's the same thing time and time again: a gigantic pile of mildly-paralyzed, overly-satisfied women panting, huffing down cigarettes with reckless abandon, and speaking in tongues. If some million-woman march occurs in Washington and starts to get out of hand, send me in. All I need is an Ipod equipped with the director's cut of Wild Things and patriarchy will once again, prevail. 

So, yeah, instead of talking about the obvious improvement in this exercise over 73 days, let's dig into something juicier, something more personal and deeper. Let's discuss my self-image. There's a lot to cover here and I intend to work through it during this week's blogs, but, for today, let's just cover the surface, the strictly physical. How do I feel about my body?

In short, I like it and I think you should too. I'm not like Swayze in Roadhouse by any means, but it no longer acts as an obstacle that is conquered by, "well, he's sort of funny". Weirdly enough, I can no longer take my shirt off at parties; before, I was the funny, slightly too drunk guy, with the make-a-wish kid frame and Jewish accountant gut, but now, I would be the douchey guy that has no other positive social characteristics other than triceps you can drink water out of and abs you could grate cinder blocks on. If there is a ketchup bottle in front of me or across the table, I find myself reaching for the one across the table, allowing my t-shirt to ride up on my arm as I flex and crane lift my ketchup to my plate. I refuse to do any social activity where I can't take my shirt off. "Yeah, that sucks man, but I'm going to have to pass on the funeral; it's beach-day bro". 

In all seriousness, whenever something occurs in our lives that is socially positive - getting a senior role in a company, getting stronger, getting published, banging some girls etc. - it is very easy to allow that confidence to cede into other areas it has no business being. You can get in really good shape, but that doesn't mean you should feel more correct when arguing about gay marriage, or Quantum Theory, or find your jokes funnier. The same goes for all other things. And, the opposite occurs too. If you, say, feel insecure about your looks or you didn't get the job you wanted, then it is really easy to feel less confident about your opinions, thoughts, abstract ability to reason etc. The better we feel about ourselves as a whole, the better we feel about the parts that make up the whole; this is illogical. These parts are separate entities - how your face looks and your ability to judge sound reasoning do not reinforce or influence each other. Easier said than done, but it is silly to do so. 

 

Point of all this? I have been watching this process occur in myself and have begun the process of building dams, blocking any positive feelings about my physical appearance from flowing into any other areas it has no business being in. (Plus, lifting weights does not help your face). Ego can ruin experience - if you think you're bigger than the world, how can you be in constant awe of it, if you think you are always right or as smart as anyone, how can you learn from people or become excited by their ideas. Humility allows you to take so much 'new' stuff in; with Ego, you just patch these new experiences onto the old-construct that stands to prove you are this or that great thing; with humility, you are allowed to tear down some of this construct, constantly renewing your perspective on things and yourself. The ego-driven person derives pleasure and contentment from their positive self-image, to tear aspects of it down, is to tear down pieces of the mechanism that allows them to be happy, thus, real, powerful, spell-binding new ideas or experiences will be ignored in favour of serving this construct.

Wow, that was so deep, I am truly awesome. 

In short, I look better, but I am still the same ol' insecure guy that will pull out his penis if it will make people laugh.

Highlights: Millard staring at his reflection in the window flexing his biceps. I think him and Zak share a storage unit for their self-image in the same building. 

State of Mind: I think I am so cool, but not that cool, but pretty cool.

Rating: P90X

*I have gotten manly enough over the last 73 days to be able to say Voila and it still sound cool.

** Do not mistake Wild Things with Where the Wild Things Are. Wild Things has Kevin Bacon and Neve Campbell in it and has no giant, hairy, monsters that represent what our insecurities turn us into, blocking us from attaining the one thing we want, to not be alone, to be loved and cared about. Saddest fuckin' movie ever. I considered putting in Schindler's List afterwards to cheer me up.***

***That's not a Jewish joke...the movie does not actually cheer me up - it's a hyperbole used to underline how sad Where the Wild Things Are is by comparing it to a super-sad movie that powerfully illustrates in grueling, gut-wrenching detail, one of the greatest atrocities in human history. Thought I should clear the air. 

Day 72: Plyometrics

We're rounding the corner, coming into the homestretch, 18 tiny lil' days until the finish line. We've shown the heart, determination, and ability to overcome the odds like the Jamaican Bobsled Team (the movie version with Doug E. Doug, which I imagine is way more inspiring than the actual one), but will we end up face-down, all our hard-work, dreams, and hopes for not having to wear a shirt all summer, scraping away like the black, gold, and green paint from their helmets?

Well, if we can get through the all-out, breakneck, soul-crushing 'total war' on our bodies that was the first 18 days, the last 18 should be like the invasion of Grenada. (By that I mean it should be easy, not a staged, overblown, hard-fought victory of the courageous and good against the dastardly forces of evil that can occupy any dark corner of the world - like, say, a small isolated island of 100 000 peaceful subsistence-farmers - growing and growing into a freedom-strangling, liberty-raping, baby-killing hegemony.)

It should be easy; we have already soundly defeated the Triple-Alliance of chin-fat, meat-bagel*, and running out of breath while masturbating. (The Italians naturally representing the latter, given their rabid libidos and love of all things cheesy and fat, which also explains their deep admiration of Pavarotti). After that, it should be smooth-sailing unless we encounter something comparable to a U-Boat or other sort of poor analogy that allows me to move on to that other total-war we had, WWII.

Our go at Plyometrics today speaks to how easy it should be to complete the final 18. During the first 18, this exercise would gut-punch us, take our lunch money, and then use that lunch money to buy a large dildo to rape any hope of completing this exercise out of us. Times have changed, tables have turned? We are doing the gut-punching, lunch-money stealing, and anal dildo raping? Either way, we can now competently get through it.

But, really, you never know what the next 18 days has in store for us. In the deep, dark, unknown, depths of our consciousness, could lurk a demotivational torpedo heading directly our way. (And, B-Bam, a fully-functional, non-forced U-Boat analogy...eat it, "when in doubt you do not have to use analogies Bomber"; you know who you are).

Highlights: It is becoming crystal clear that we need to institute a rule that forbids inviting people over while we do plyometrics or yoga. You simply cannot look cool doing squat-jacks in matching board-shorts.

State of Mind: I like working out now and it yields super-positive mental results -- however, I have moved far enough away from how I mentally felt before working out to be able to compare exactly how much better it does make me feel. I guess it's like any drug, it's beauty and splendor fades with repeated use.

Rating: P90X

* Scrunch up your stomach fat into a circle around your belly-button, and, that, my friends, is a meat-bagel.

Day 71: Chest and Back and 5K Run

I bought a mop today. I've been living in my apartment for 6 months and my Swiffer with the one head and and empty tank is being officially retired. I am burying it in the backyard along with the pot with the burnt Sidekick noodles on the bottom and the pint glass with the curdled mystery substance. I also will be throwing out my Kriss-Cross cassette (I bought the CD), poster of Keanu Reeves in the first Matrix, and the hope that Kim Johnsson will grow into a stalwart on the Leafs' blueline (that one's been buried in my closet for a long time). The Brett Hull GT-Racer poster is also gone, but it is in the shop getting framed. As you may have gathered, today is Spring-Cleaning even though it feels like summer outside. 

I moved everything off the floor and I was ready to give it an experience it probably has never had - a good moppin'. That sticky spot in my kitchen that has become a graveyard for an entire generation of ants - I imagine inspiring powerful war-time poetry that will be memorized and regurgitated in ant classrooms for generations to come - was about to finally meet its maker...literally. As I grabbed the mop, Millard and his usual outfit of flannel and awkwardly fitting New Era cap busted through my door, "dude, for one, how awesome is my beard, and, two, it's beautiful out, a perfect day to do a 5K". I dropped the mop - the ants can have one more day to mourn the loss of their fellow patriots - grabbed my shorts, and went outside where I put my shorts on. (I mop naked; Millard now knows that). 

On the days that I run, I plan out what I eat accordingly - lots of carbs, some protein, and some fats. I didn't have that opportunity today; all I had for breakfast was chicken. Just chicken. I don't know much about stuff, but running with only protein in your system might not be a good idea. The first km of the run, shit was bad: my knees hurt, I was starting to feel a cramp developing, and my wiener was rubbing against the hair on my inner-thigh and, no matter how much re-adjusting I did, it was like a pig's tail, immediately going back to its original position smacking right against my thigh. (And, yes, it makes a distinct 'smack' sound due to its gurthiness). The only fun part was passing Millard on his way back, giving every bystander in the vicinity a reason to think we are super-lame. Whatever, high-fiving someone while you are both completely in the air without breaking stride is not easy to pull-off. 

I made it to the LCBO at 10:55, which isn't an awful time considering I only need to beat my best of 21:55. If I kept up my pace, I would shave off 5 seconds. However, I was ruined, flattened, defeated...I had nothing in my gas-tank or reservoir of Nazi-defeating determination. I dug in, pushing back feelings of vomiting, wanting to stop, and wanting throw myself in front of a bus, and made it to about the 4k mark at par with my best time. If the CTV Olympic crew were covering my runs, I would be neck and neck with my digitally-imposed shadow and Brian Williams would be comparing me to Terry Fox. 

At this point, my shadow pulled away from me fading far into the horizon. I was done - I looked like a modern North-American Jew on a Tibetan death-march. I could barely lift my legs for the last 100 metres and I think I might have actually began to cry. I literally fell through the finish line. Time?

23:10

I added 1:15 onto my best time. Dejection, disgrace, and shame, eventually ceding into self-pity. The taste of defeat -- tastes like Prince Igor vodka with a cigarette in it and sounds like someone fucking your girlfriend or significant other.

Afterwards, I had to place giant granules of salt directly into my wounded pride, immediately having to do Chest and Back because I had promised some friends I would drive up to their place by 10. Luckily, this exercise is mainly push-ups, which Millard and I have gotten insanely good at due to the ingenious inclusion of push-ups into video-games. I recommend it to all. It adds more competition, and more reward when you force your opponent for an 8th time that game to do ten push-ups on Gaborik's highlight reel 4th goal. Eat it Millard - I own you in NHL 10.

I sloppily stumbled through this exercise, gritting and grinding my teeth and sphincter as I worked through well over 200 push-ups.

Highlights: That last km was a long highlight unto itself. It was like an audition tape for Passion of the Christ. (And, yes, that is the 2nd time in a week I have compared myself to Jesus).

State of Mind: The run was hell - if that was the experience I had the first time I clocked a 5k, I would not being doing them. That being said, it was nice to see that I didn't just say fuck it and kept pushing. If I want to do any sort of high-endurance activities to test my mettle, these are the experiences that will help. 

Rating: 5K: P77X + C & B: P85X = P81X

Day 68 and 69: 5K Run and Shoulders, Triceps and Chest

Weekend-workouts are worse than Mondays. All I want to do on weekends is drink, dance, debauch, and use my liberal arts degree to argue with someone with a B.A. in commerce, until 5am in a hot-tub, about what Einstein actually meant in his theory of relativity and how the non-locality at the sub-atomic level displayed in Quantum Physics proves aspects of it wrong. "I'm sorry dude, but I have 4 back-issues of Scientific American beside my toilet and I take long poos, so they definetely trump your two PBS documentaries on space-time. Plus, I am far more drunker than you, thus, more righter". 

The crappiness of the weekend workout is simple, my week of work is over, why do I have to do more? Everyone around me is done and having fun, why do I still have to do stuff? 

But, Bomber, these people have real jobs and you only have to workout an hour a day, how does that even compare? Well, what I am doing is a real job. For starters, I make money from this blog - in fact, my last week's earnings bought me a breakfast combo from McDonald's. And, secondly, this whole thing acts as a sort of internship where I am getting the "experience" necessary to get a lucrative, high-paying job...stripping. All I need is a stripper name and a song. They should probably play off eachother. Suggestions would be appreciated in the comments section. I'm thinking 'Bang Bang Bomber', where my thong has a gun on it, and I fire it towards the crowd during the various gunshots in any DMX track.* 

After spending two hours, burrito-wrapped in my Grandma's blanket on the beach, re-learning grade 8 geo's concept of the moderating effect of water, bitterly attempting to have a beach-day, I returned home to hit the pavement in search of a new best 5K time. This time I had headphones that you do not buy on an airplane, so that alone put me in good stead to beat my previous best, 22:47. I sat in my basement, eyes ablaze with a firey determination that would have scared the caked-on poutine out of Maurice Richard's bowels, slowly and meticulously lacing my sneakers up, blood coursing through my race-track of a circulatory system, faster, and faster, all the while, Eye of the Tiger, blasted through my ear drums, starting to build, starting to hit its fever pitch. I bolted up my steps like they led to the Philadephia Museum of Art**, making my way to the starting line, a busy, busling Queen street. 

Rural Alberta Advantage crackled, and danced through my headphones, into my eardrums, hypnotically demanding my hypothalamus send torrential waves of world-conquering hormonal warriors throughout my body. I made it to the half-way point - the LCBO - at 10:37. If I could keep it up, I would crush my time like a beer-can on oh so many Nascar fans' foreheads. For this, I needed to bring out the big audio guns, the one thing that can squeeze every ounce of hormone-juiced ability out of me - Big Shiny Tunes 2. Yeah, yeah, I know, but we are chained to the nostalgia of our old musical choices; in my best year of hockey, this was the only album we listened to and it brings back all of those teeth-chattering, white-knuckled, heart-pumping, back-hand top-corner moments of pure adrenaline. 

Prodigy, 'Breathe', and Blur, 'Song 2', squeezed down on my hypothalumus like a 13-year old touching a tit for the first time. I was about one km out and, 'Semi-Charmed Life', came on - this wouldn't cut it. I frantically punched down on the skip button finding the one song that could get it done: Marilyn Manson, "Beautiful People".

You can't see the forest for the trees, And you can't smell your own, And on your kn - bam! crossed the finish line. Time?

21:55

The scene was filled with jubilation, joy, contentment, pride, and one scared older lady with her dog who had no idea she was walking through my finish line. The sweet, sweet, taste of victory -- tastes like rum and sounds like whatever the fine ladies at Jilly's prefer to dance to. 

I woke up late on Saturday, realizing I had to get home for Easter by dinner-time. I quickly ate, summoned up the hangover courage, and plowed through Shoulders, Triceps, and Arms. I clocked out, my work for the weekend was over. 

Highlights: Last 500 metres, I came upon a crowd of 6 people blocking the sidewalk, as I popped onto the street, a chunk of phlegmy awfulness shot into my mouth, as I ran by the crowd I attempted to get rid of this pesky disturbance powerfully propelling half of it out of my mouth until it got snagged by the other half, causing it to fling back into my face. So, yeah, I spit on my face in front of a bunch of people. 

State of Mind: I will go into more detail in the next blog about where I am now, but, in short, I am at a point where I enjoy working out, it has become as an integral to a good day as a morning poop, shower, great dinner, and beating Millard in NHL 10. 

Rating: 5K: P90X + S, T & A: P75X = P82.5X

* And, yes, there was a Simpsons' episode that had a grown-up Bart stripping under the name, 'Bang Bang Bart', but, he did not have a gun on his thong or seamlessly choreograph his gun-shot-thrusts to one of the greatest poets of our generation, DMX.

** The building 'Rocky' ran too.

Day 67: Yoga X

Yoga...for some this word conveys inner-peace, transcendence, relaxation, calm, and an opportunity to escape the mundane, pain-inducing trivialities of the illusory material world to a place of eternal (non)meaning and (un)truth. For Millard and I, yoga is a place of mind-blowing, olfactory nerve-shattering farts, the awful feeling that comes from knowing we can't tell our dads about this, and mildly homosexual events ("Now, place your asses in the air and exhale slowly", "Ahhhh, that feels soo good bro", "Man, oh yeah, ahhh, yeah, that is it right there, that is the good stuff"). At first, it was just funny. "I can't believe we are doing this, this might be gay, and I'd have to ask that kid with the skinny jeans, $120 flannel shirt, and the look of always not wanting to be where he is that's always in the streetcar/bar/subway/restaurant/clothing store/place where people meet, but I don't think this is very cool. Whatever man, we are strong enough to not care about flaunting the code of cool and the irrational, perpetual fear of possibly being considered homosexual and that's funny." "Exactly Bomber, hell yeah, we don't need to care about the silly, bullshit, insecurity-driven notion of what we should be, we can just 'be' and that makes us cool". "High-five".

Now, we care. 

It's gone from, 'this is hilarious we are doing this' to 'what the fuck, we do this every week'. The initial shock that jolted our funny bones has subsided, leaving only two dude's loosening their pelvic floors causing the relaxation of their respective anal-sphincters. Two heterosexual dude's should not be relaxing and delicately opening their anal-sphincters in the same room - let alone, beside each other with their asses in the air as they moan in ecstacy. That's gayer than Richard Simmons' body-butter, glitter, bedazzled things, or a fiercely anti-gay republican. But, it's not gayer than Richard Simmons or bedazzled glitter, which is the apex of gay. So, how gay is it? Well, here's a complete, empirical list of the aspects of a homosexual encounter,

-Sweat

-Moans

-Two or more men present

-Unchristian

-Anal sphincter opening

-Abs

-Penetration

-Orgasm

We cover everything on this list except for penetration. So, science would tell us that we are 7/8ths gay. Global warming, annual increases in toxic particulate matter, the link between cancer and cell phones, and now, me being 7/8ths gay - I hate science. 

Some of you may have some concerns about the list. How is Yoga unchristian? Can't you have a homosexual encounter without penetration? These are good questions. Firstly, it is unchristian because it is an activity used extensively in a different religion. As for the second question, it raises an interesting point, does penetration have to be involved in a homosexual encounter? Well, if you walked in on your buddy getting a handjob from a trucker, he probably wouldn't try arguing that it's not gay because there was no penetration and that we should just get on with our trip across Canada because we need to get to his parent's cottage in Parry Sound in time because the other side of the Echlin family will be there in a few days. 

So, yeah, I guess we can take 'penetration' off the list. Wonderful, we are officially full-gay (7/7ths). Anymore questions about the list?

I play squash - it has two men in a room, sweating, with abs, and the occasional moan as we lunge for a difficult shot. So, given your logic, it is 4/7ths gay. 

And your point is? I asked for questions not declarative statements. Any actual questions? I guess not.

Highlights: I achieved the ultimate yoga position allowing me to reach Nirvana, which is the name of my penis - hence, the orgasm listed above. One of the worst things in P90X history occured today, Millard's testicles fell out of his shorts and, I don't want to say too much, but it was one of the weirdest things I've ever seen - they were like two cute Furby dolls with big, manly beards. 

State of Mind: It's like Barbara Streisand in Funny Lady, Liza Manneli, and Burt Bacharach are having a glitter fight in my brain. Burt's there because I'm still pretty manly. "Pretty-Manly": the perfect title for my eventual biopic.

Rating: Next time we do Yoga, i'll explain our short-comings, but we suck: P56X.

Day 66: Back and Bis

I walked out of my apartment this morning to a beautiful 20 degree Celsius summer breeze washing over my smiling face, people on their porches rocking back and forth pleasantly waving at whoever happens to pass by, a paper delivery boy perfectly arching today's news onto nearby driveways, birds chirping, kids playing, a 55' Ford Thunderbird peacefully rolling by, a picture-perfect day in the life of a good citizen. I was gently pulled from this comforting scene by a friendly lick of my hand, a neighbourhood dog was stopping by to say hello, as I looked down to give him a hearty pet, I was surpised to see I was wearing a baseball mitt, a perfectly pressed t-shirt and slacks, polished shoes, and the most startling of all, I was in black and white; everything was in black-and-white. This weird realization was interrupted by someone calling me for breakfast. But, here's the thing, no one makes me breakfast. "Beaverrrr, breakfast is ready!". It hit me like the Lombardi-led Green Bay Packers defensive line, I was in Leave it to Beaver. In fact, I was Beaver!

This was all very weird at first - indeed, the only thing that has ever happily licked my hand around my house was a homeless guy and we don't have paper-boys let alone driveways to throw the papers on. But, gee golly, I felt great. Not a care or worry in the world - everything was as it should be, the good guys had won the war, America was the benevolent super-power that would usher in a new era of peace, happiness, and rights, and I was an integral part of it; a young boy in the noble nuclear family. In short, the first day of good weather can have a profound affect on one's mental state. 

I had to turn away from this beautiful, simple, and weirdly perfect place, descending into my dungeon of damp degeneracy to lift heavy things. The colour came back, which was a relief, but so did everything else in all-too vivid technicolor - a teetering superpower divided in half by those that read and those that enjoy monster trucks and Hooters; an imminent, although never acknowledged, global water crisis; allowing your son to be an altar boy qualifying you as a bad-parent; Detroit making crime instead of cars; Arrested Development being cancelled...twice; 98% of a political movement named after a tax-revolution that demands tax-cuts not knowing that taxes have been cut in the last year; Sarah Palin; Sarah Palin supporters; Sarah Palin wrote a book; people actually believing Sarah Palin wrote a book; the Sarah Palin book becoming a national best-seller; Sarah Palin's family; Sarah Palin's tight fitting leather jackets; and worst of all, the guilt of wanting to fuck Sarah Palin. Cold, stark, brutal realism crashed into my consciousness like a brick through a congressman's window. It was clear that this world was much crappier than the soda-pop version outside, but, I had a job to do. 

Millard and I anted-up, bared down, and hummed through the workout like a perfectly fitted fan-belt on a 56' Buick Skylark. It sucked being couped up inside, but once we got our motors running and got out on the highway, we were looking for adventure and whatever came our w...this song is from 68', Leave it to Beaver was cancelled in 63', it makes no sense to force this in here and it sounds lame. You were looking for adventure and whatever came your way? Do you have any idea how gay that sounds? Two dudes, doing Yoga and lifting weights alone in a basement apartment, yelling things like "dooo it bro", "torque it guy, torque it", and "pump it broo, pump it", is bad enough and inches you eerily close to warp-speed gayness. Adding in the fact "you got your motors running and were looking for adventure" may actually break the gay barrier - if Einstein had a theory about the impossibility to reach maximal gayness because of the structure and limitations of the time-space continuum, you would have just disproven it. And, you clearly know nothing about cars - the humming of a fan-belt? Are you kidding me?

Well, what I was trying to say was that we did well and competently completed the workout routine. You raise some good-points and I would like to yield the rest of my time to the floor.

Highlights: Jam-packed with moments of motors-running, adventure-finding, liking smoke and lightning, and exploding into space. Yeah, fuck you.

State of Mind: The weather matches my mental state -- cheerful, breezy, refreshing, and a little cloudy (I'm still sort of sick).

Rating: Hit some failure and sort of wimped out on the final strip-set: P80X.

Day 65: Plyometrics

My P90X posse is growing like a 13 year-old boy's manhood in the back of a bumpy school-bus, like reality TV after Survivor, like Hasselhoff in Germany, like a war-time economy, like my love for Japanese gameshows, like Glenn Beck's insanity, like Jon Stewart's importance in Amerian political discourse, like the demand for skinny jeans, like vampire-based sexual fantasies, like the lack of care for Haiti, like the ability to think socialism, communism, and fascism are the same thing, like the belief that Barack Obama is fuckin' gangster, like the need to bring back The Care Bears, The Smoggies, and Captain Planet on Saturday mornings, like the need for condoms with lightning bolts on the side, like the need to end this list because I'm not even sure what we are comparing all this stuff to anymore, and like the need for velcro shoes to be considered cool and jogging pants with soccer-balls, foot-balls, or cats on them to be acceptable to wear again. 

We had an addition to our workout troupe today - Millard's girlfriend, Stacy. Now, she has worked out with us before, but she has not been officially ordained and brought into the P90X circle of trust. This makes today a special day - we have yet another 'Trial Private' on our roster, which is as follows,

Raj 'PoopyTaco' Gill 

LJ 'ThunderGlitter' McCleod

Stacy 'Gruber' Toffan

Like every member of the team, Stacy has a very specifically crafted nickname. Some of you may be wondering if she is nicknamed after the great SNL character MacGruber, but you would be wrong. She is actually named after the greatest Gruber in the history of Grubers. The story behind this prestigious honour is short and sweet. (Just like Stacy? I'm just kidding; Stacy is a fiery ball of twisted steel, sandpaper, jagged glass, and really sharp tacks).

During our workout, Stacy was wearing a baggy pair of joggers and a baggy men's t-shirt. The only thing identifiably female was her flowing blonde locks. For the first 5 minutes of the workout I did not notice her - she was infront of me, but off to the right. When we started to do our first squats I looked over to check her form and bam! I couldn't believe it! For about 3 seconds my brain was wrinkled -- I actually thought the great Kelly Gruber was doing squats in my living room. I almost got my Jays jersey and asked for an autograph. So, she is now referred to as 'Gruber', which is a name I assume she cherishes.

But, Bomber, why would you name a cute, blonde girl after a male baseball player - isn't that mean? Well, like I said, from behind, all you saw was baggy men's clothes and those rushing, flowing, cascading, blonde locks bouncing around. And if anyone has ever seen a shot of Kelly Gruber rushing towards first base like a confident, peaceful gazelle, then you would understand that he had what could only be described as the most perfect, flowing blonde locks. In fact, it's a compliment: Kelly Gruber had really pretty hair. He was honestly my mom's favorite baseball player for three years because she thought Kelly was a chick; his hair was that pretty. Yeah, I know, how could he be mistaken as a chick with a chiselled chin like that, but TV's back in the day were much grainier and weren't able to fully capture Kelly's overtly rugged and masculine features in all their manly glory. All you saw was the beautiful hair and the unisexual name, 'Kelly'. To my mom, he was the female Jackie Robinson. The memory of the day she found out Kelly in fact had a penis - probably a very manly one - still brings a tear to my eye. Why my Uncle decided he had to tell her this, I will never know. Sometimes, mistruths are good and sometimes Uncle's are dumb.

We had PoopyTaco and Gruber along for the ride and they put in one hell of an effort - hair-raising stuff really. They had to take a few breaks here and there as Millard and I put on a clinic of squat-perfection, but they would bite the plyo-bullet and bear down on the next exercise. 

Highlights: PoopyTaco followed our newly imposed strict rule of mandatory sportsbras. After the workout, I realized we might need some heavy-duty duct tape for next time. 

State of Mind: It's a lot easier to do it with a group of people. The seconds just easily shed away alongside all the calories. B-bam...it felt great.

Rating: Millard and I - P90X, PoopyTaco and Gruber - P65X