Rip Your Own Arms Out of Their Sockets and Beat Yourself Senseless With Them

196.2 lbs. Steady as she goes since Thursday. (Sound of fingers drumming on table) This needs to end on a downward note.

Today, I was nearly hit head on by a woman cutting a corner in a parking lot. At least this one didn’t blame her bad driving on my shape.

The window between the blood flow being restored to my brain and my arms losing function for a couple of days is small, so this will be a short post today.

I doubt Christ felt as stiff and sore after His time on the cross as I did on Easter Sunday. Something to do with the lower body workout on Saturday.  I was mortally afraid of sneezing yesterday. I’m still not so sure it’s a good idea today.

Because personal trainers believe in both sides of the body and the curtains should match the carpet (if you can’t move either one), Torquemada set about inflicting maximum damage on the upper body today. She succeeded.

I am typing this with my nose.

After Saturday, I resolved to  let Torque just do her thing and leave my last experience with a trainer out of it and just do whatever she asked.

However…

Her first exercise out of the gate was something called “21.” Since she didn’t produce a deck of cards, please don’t confuse it with blackjack. When she was done working triceps, then biceps then delts (oh my. Yes, I’ve made that joke already. It’s a good one), she told me she’d read my blog and that this was the toughest exercise she’d be inflicting. Then she laughed. It sounded more evil than before.

I did actually cooperate. Well, up to a point. I did the pushups. I did them a second time. But when she wanted me to balance on knees and one arm while pumping a weight with the free hand, my instinctive reaction was “Hell mother fucking no.” And I said just that. Quite loudly. The Grunt Brothers on the big cable cross machine stopped trying to impress each other for a moment and just stared. They were already pissed because a couple of girls had taken over the machine and space they initially wanted. Just a word: I love certain sports teams, but getting their logo tattooed on me, no, not even for my Red Sox. In order to be drunk enough for that to seem like a good idea, I would have to be in my “passed out next to the toilet” phase. Since Torquemada has put the kibosh on red wine, that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. A bright red pair of lips on my right butt cheek, maybe.

Did I work hard today? When asked where I was feeling things or how I was feeling,  I could only pant and point. Nevertheless, this was effective communication. At first, it was specific points, then a weak hand wave indicated that I hurt all over. After a particularly vigorous effort with biceps, I kind of wiggled my fingers. I’m surprised I didn’t need to be wheeled out on a dolly.

After a particularly tough abdominal exercise (Look, if you’ve seen by abdomen, you know that hiccups are a good workout on The Great White Belly), I laid back, gasping for breath and thought perhaps I had died; there was a bright white light in front of me. I wondered briefly if perhaps I should go towards the light and be greeted by loved ones when I realized it was the skylight and I wasn’t floating towards it (Buoyancy is one advantage the plus-sized have over the skinny bitches. Fat floats). So much for seeing my grandmother again.  Just as well, she’d probably tell me I have such a pretty face, I should do something about my weight.