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

Day 64: Shoulders, Chest, and Triceps and Ab Ripper X

"And why do I know it works? Because I'm also a member". Today, I feel the pride, sincerity, and belief that the great founder and member of the Hair Club for Men felt when he uttered these historic words. During our first P90X workout our peppy, annoying, inspiring and somewhat creepy instructor barked out these melodramatic and sensationalistic words, "we're changing lives across this great country of ours". At the time, I thought this guy was taking himself way too seriously - I imagined this is what the Jonestown leader sounded like. It was truly cult-like, but instead of matching robes they all had on matching muave P90X tanktops. But, now, I see the light, I get it, and it is righteous and beautiful my brothers and sisters. Don't be afraid, embrace the revelation, cover your whole body in the Truth; bask and glow and let it imbue your soul with contentment and purpose. Namaste. Come forth and be annointed. Tony you changed lives across the great country of the United States - don't worry, I've got Canada covered. 

Some of you may be confused - doubtful even, but this is all a normal adjustment to understanding the groundbreaking, paradigm-shifting, life-changing, muscle-bulging truth of 'the X'. I beckon, plead, and righteously request you order your P90X tanktops for the low price of a 29.95 down payment - whereafter, you are required to give me all your possessions. Don't worry, where we're going material things are meaningless. The only possession you require are beautiful, sparkling, clit-boner inducing abs...and we will be giving you this great gift in exchange for all of your things.

The point of all this mind-numbing, grandstanding, religio-economic rhetoric is that a few of my friends have decided to start P90X. That's all. I guess I represent a pretty functional motivational tool for some. Before, when my ranch, cheese and beer guzzling buddies and I would see someone who is dedicated to being in shape, we would claim that's just not us, it's not part of what matters to us and that guy is dumb and not smart and we are, so we don't need to compensate by working out. This and other ego-empowering rationalizations were constantly made. But, the fact that one of us - arguably the most ranch and cheese saturated individual - broke off and joined the other side, caused these rationalizations to be liquidated of all their oily, greasy, ranch and cheese meaning leaving only a crusty receptacle of sorry excuses. Quite basically, 'if Bomber can do it, why the fuck can't I'. 

I found the biggest motivator to do this program came from writing about it. It allowed a bunch of my friends to know I was attempting it, creating more expectations and therefore greater failure if I did not finish. Great expectations are the material the strongest and urgent motivations are made out of. In that spirit - the spirit of trying to help - I will  list the names of my friends that are taking the P90X plunge. If you know them please send them messages saying that you know and you are watching them. Here are the following cadets of the P90X program,

Mr. Graham 'Grandpa-Chest' Echlin (What was the war like Graham?).

Mr. Oli 'The New World Order is Upon Us and Will Kill Your Babies' Squire. (I think everything Al Gore said was correct, what do you think?).

Mr. Eric 'Is a Fart Art?' Shulist (I want my art-theory book back dude).

Good luck and godspeed cadets! You will need it. Be vigilant, be aware, be alert, be strong, be willing, and above all, be 'Me'. 

We had some new additions to our work out today. They are not new cadets because they have not yet decided if they want in on the Truth. They are currently considered 'Trial Privates', which is way less weird of a name considering they are not male. We have a returnee Trial Private - Raj 'PoopyTaco' Gill - and a newbie to the beat - LJ 'ThunderGlitter' McCleod. The workout was tough, unrelenting, and sweaty. The trial privates did good.

Highlights: With all four of us in the living room/kitchen, we did not have a lot of space. At one point Raj was behind me and I got hit upside the head. At first I thought she must have accidentally smacked me with her hand, but I realized this wasn't possible because we were doing squats with our hands down at our sides. Then the awful, heart-stopping realization hit me and prompted the creation of the first rule of P90X: Trial Private PoopyTaco has to wear a sportsbra - preferably with duct tape fastened around it...at all times, no matter what. I washed and washed the back of my head, but the damage was done; I will never be the same. 

State of Mind: Indoctrinated righteousness with an unflinching faith in the universal truisms contained in the P90X.

Rating: We almost did every exercise, but hit failure here and there - P82X.

Day 60 and 62: 5k Run, Chest and Back, And Extreme Sickness

Simon and Schuster; Batman and Robin; Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin; Riggs and Murtaugh; Amos and Andy; Republicans and Racism; Hate and Ignorance; Evil Dictators and Mustaches; Tiny Chicks and Big Tits; Catholicism and Hypocrisy; Glenn Beck and Inane Chalk Diagrams; Politics and Theatre; Drunk Chicks and My Dick; Nerf Guns and Good Times; Taco Bell and Intestinal Regret; George Washington and John Adams - these are all great bedfellows, they all work incredibly well together. Being sick and drinking, however, do not. Throw in dairy, and you have a biological axis of evil, a triangle of tyranny, a trifecta of tumult, a cadre of cruelty, a cavalcade of consternation, a shut-the-fuck-up-with-the-lists-and-get-on-with-it-and-I-don't-think-consternation-works-in-this-context-nevermind-I-looked-it-up-and-it-means-a-state-of-paralyzing-dismay-my-bad-but-please-move-on-because-this-is-beginning-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-my-eyes-although-I-am-technically-a-non-existent-persona-used-as-a-tool-for-interactive-dialogue-with-the-readers-so-that-doesn't-really-make-sense. 

In short, fuck.

I can't even tell what parts are the hangover, the sickness, or that suspiciously cheap burrito I bought at the gas station the night before. All I know, is I would donate bone marrow and half-an-inch of my penis to get rid of this feeling. It's like every cell in my body is being creepily humped into painful submission by that smelly, yellow troll from Sin City. (And, yes, cells have receptor sites, so they can be 'penetrated' by unwanted entities). Mentally - 'paralyzing dismay; physically, my body feels like it's being slowly broken down into a gelatanoues slime that will slowly slip and slink into a nearby sewer. I've never missed a P90X workout, will today be the first?

The weather outside matched my emotional state - cold, sad, and dreadful. Today was a cardio day so I decided I'd sub-in a 5k run instead of the regularly scheduled workout, Kenpo-X. I was not in the mood to imagine myself vanquishing various sorts of henchmen with upper-cuts and high-leg kicks. I just needed something to put my head down and drive through - running was the perfect option. I put on my all black outfit of jogging pants and hoodie - a great idea especially at night - laced my sneakers up extra tight, grabbed my mp3 player, switched on the only thing that could get my mucous-saturated juices flowing - Eye of the Tiger - and laid back down on my couch, napping for another hour. That was my first attempt. I awoke, groggy and pissed of at myself, with Eye of the Tiger still on loop, which produces the most intense I-against-the-world dreams I have ever experienced. Fortunately, the resonating emotional context of these dreams would provide the necessary motivation for me to actual go through with this. 

I peeled myself off the couch, muttering 'fuck it' underneath my breath, and ascended from my dungeon of dank misery, making my way to the starting line, Queen street. I prepped myself, slowly exhaling a mixture of air and phlegm, looking on with burning embers of determination in my eyes and napalm in my heart, all the while slowly pulling my hood over my head. I slammed down on my stop-watch, lightly growled, and took my first step. It was weak and unsure and landed atop a chunked-up piece of gravel, causing me to slightly trip, and shoot out my right hand to regain my balance. As I was getting back up, Survivor's wise and powerful words of encouragement crackled through my WestJet headphones,

Risin' up, back on the street

Did my time, took my chances

Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet

Just a man and his will to survive

I hit full pace right as the last line began to roll through my headphones. This may be a cheesy moment for some, but, for me, it was heart-palpatating, knee-knocking, vein-expanding, mind-gasming, sports-movie-montage perfection. The run was crappy, the weather was crappy, but all of these awful colliding factors made it enjoyable in a weird way. Not to overdo the Rocky theme, but I felt like I had no business making every step like Rocky had no business stepping into the ring. Simply put, I felt the high of overcoming the underdog status. 

My best time so far was 22:47. I had no designs on making this time, I just wanted to post something in the ball-park. I rigamaroled* through the finish line at 24:22 - respectable considering the circumstances.

As a result, I decided to celebrate that night.

I woke up sweating vodka, rum, and regret out of my pores. Comparing the way I felt yesterday to today is like comparing gonorrhea to full-blown AIDS. It had to be done, I had to reschedule - on Day 62, I, Eric Bombicino, missed my first P90X session. I stayed in bed until the next day where I prompty got up and moved to my couch where I would stay until 9 o'clock. I, then, rigamaroled through Chest and Shoulders and went back to bed. Determination, grit, stupidity -- call it whatever, but I paid my dues to P90X and now we're all square.

Highlights: A light dabble of teeth-clenching, white-knuckle perserverance atop an ocean of rigamarole. 

State of Mind: Temporary mucous-induced labotimization.

Rating:  5K - P83X (It was over the best time, so it can't be the full score) + C & B - P90X = P86.5

*Rigamaroled is not a proper conjugation of the adjective 'rigamarole' and if it was it is not being used in the proper context. However, I am using it as an onomatopoeia - so, I'm going to go ahead and say it's still within the bounds of proper english.