Toot Toot Beep Beep Yeah

179.8 lbs. If you’re a regular here, you know what I’m thinking. And you should wash your brain out with soap!

I love cats and have known my share of Mighty Hunters. However, despite all the tales of mice, bunnies, chipmunks and the occasional hornpout (apparently, when my mom and her siblings were still kids, my aunt’s cat, Peter, would go fishing and my grandmother would fry up his catch for him), I believe I have heard the winner: a friend just told me her cat brought home a turtle the other day and now regards it as his pet. Top that.

 Due to training for a new job (Yea! Work is always Yea! Mama needs new bras and Victoria’s Secret isn’t trying to sign me up as a model. Neither is Lane Bryant, but their stuff is lousy, anyway. We’ve covered this ), I was unable to get to the gym in my usual dark-thirty timeframe  and had to go in the late afternoon.

Let me tell you, I would rather bobsled naked at the Olympics (which, if you really know me, taps into my hatred of being cold and my refusal to be unclothed even for me) than do that again. I’d rather sleep with Rush Limbaugh. I’d rather cheer for the New York… you get the drift.

First, there was the fight for parking spaces in front of (or as close to possible to) the front door. One would think, were one a rational human being, that it might be a good strategy to park upstairs or far away from the door to, I don’t know, get a little bit more workout on the way in and on the way out. After all, that’s why we’re there.

Apparently not.

Horns, fingers, obscenities and the idiot who parked a Jeep Compass over two spaces. Dude, it’s a fucking Jeep Compass aka Piece of Shit That Caused Chrysler to Ask for a Bailout and Hire Eminem to Make an Ad For Them in a Desperate Hail Mary for Sales. I’ve driven one. Rosie the Elephant couldn’t make a bigger pile of …yeah, I know; too many vulgarities already (important language note: “shit” and “fuck” are vulgarities. “Jesus Christ”, “hell” and “damn” are considered blasphemies. Next week: the difference between “can” and “may”). However, I stand by my review.

Then, there was the gang of girls catching up with each other JUST inside the doors and blocking traffic in both directions. I waited a moment, thinking they’d finish and head off in separate directions. Nope. I had to escalate the “Excuse me” until I almost sounded like Gilbert Gottfried. I got a “tsk” and snotty “Excuse US!” as they moved.

Crowded? Oh yes. Did this cause people to behave more courteously? Naooooooo. The machine hogs were out and about, the “exercise buddies” who took up machines side by side and spent 2 minutes doing the exercises and 10 minutes chattering in between (Note: lots of places tell you to work out with a friend so you can keep each other motivated. Bullshit. I haven’t seen it work yet). And there were those who had to check email, Twitter, texts and tell their friends about all the assholes at the gym in between reps. Sadly, they neglected to mention themselves in the report.

I managed to work in my weight training routine (although I was so frustrated with myself over the new job skills I’m trying to master that I could have tossed a Rotating Staircase of Death across the room. I keep telling you: you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I’ve been known to get sarcastic). Luckily, there were a couple of kind, hunky guys who let me work in on the machines they were using. One even stopped me when I tried to reset the machine to his settings, telling me it was easier for each of us to remember our own settings, but it was kind of me to offer. I needed that little pat on the head.

My routine is to get in an hour of cardio after the weight training. Unfortunately, the Thundering Herd was in the house and all of the functioning cardio machines, regardless of breed, were occupied. Besides, I wanted to just get the hell out of the gym (pretty sure I saw Peppermint Bitch on my way up, so steam room was out of the question). So, Friday, I’ll double down, especially if this lousy plateau doesn’t break. Monster burn? Oh, yeah. GODZILLA burn. Tokyo doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does The Great White Belly.

Even though I’m stuck on yet another plateau (and a friend assured me that a plateau is the body’s way of preparing to drop more pounds. I’ll believe it when I see it between the toes), I can see things that keep me going. I don’t have to squint to see my collarbones. Those nasty inner thigh flap for which no one has come up with an insulting term (like “muffin top,” “cankle” or “ turkey wattle”) have SHRUNK. Wow. Those suckers haven’t changed in years and my legs have never been a problem area. Ladies, those two thigh machines that are like a trip to the gynecologist without the stirrups? They really, really work! Throw in a few leg presses, too.

My butt is changing shape. Again, not really a big problem area (everything’s a piece of cake compared to the Great White Belly), but it’s getting some definition. And the GWB is still collapsing. I can suck in my gut to the point where it almost looks flat. I do not expect six pack or washboard abs out of this, but it’s heartening to know that I can potentially make all the flab go away and the Truly Nasty Overhang with it. When it comes to clothing, I’m a fan of tailored, clean lines, no ruffles or flourishes and I guess I’d like to see that in my body lines, too.

When the job gets rolling, one of the things to be considered will be (gulp) dating. I say “when the job gets rolling” because I’m thinking of Eharmony (or Match.com. I have a friend who met her husband on there). Despite one week after turning 50, Mother Nature decided to turn on the surprise sweat machine (bitch) and randomly cut the switch to brain cells in charge of memory (short term stuff like “Okay, how many sets have I done so far?” and a particular actor whose face I recognize: I know him from “Chicago Hope”, he’s been on “ER” and “Aw and Order” and has a three-part name but I’ll be damned if I can remember it. He’s not Rocky Carroll or Obbe Babatunde. DAMMIT. The fact that my father has dementia makes these kinds of lapses even more unsettling), I am an optimist. There are 6 billion plus people on this planet, slightly less than half that are men ( and no, I don’t know what the gay percentage is) and they can’t ALL be assholes.

And I hear George Clooney broke up with his girlfriend. You know, it’s got to be my turn sooner or later.