Walking.
I've been doing it for a while now. I believe it started right after my last day of "toddling". And, as many of our reputable physical/health/glossy mags will point out, it is the cheapest and yet most effective exercise regime around. We're not talking strolling here - we're talking arm-pumping power walking. The kind Lululemon-wearin' chiquita's can only do in pairs.
Prevention magazine has a seemingly effortless walking routine that will, over a month, shed a few inches and lose a few pounds. Gimme some of that. So, with Lululemon-esque pants (read: Zellers) and sweat wickin' shirt donned, I proceeded out my door to experience Day 1 of walking my ass off. Literally.
I won't miss my ass as I'll be keeping some of it. A mittful for the boys, dontcha know. But where there was once a bouncy W in my jeans there is now a jiggly kinda-V thing. Ick. No likey. So without the benefit of a hydraulic lift affixed to my hips, I'm gonna walk it up and tight like it once was.
Right, so this is the program: 5 min warm up, then 1 min moderately fast pace, 30 sec top pace and repeat 14 times. 5 min cool down. And voila! The road to Beautybumville is taken!
Everything is going tickety-boo when it starts: (Shatner voice) Shins...so...muchpain...in...sufficient warmup!
Walk it off. Breathe. A hill. OK, nothing to be scared of. Just breathe...there ya go, wasn't that...Another hill? Jeez, where did that come from? Fine, fine, 30 secs ain't gonna kil...are you serious? Man, it looks like a 90 degree incline. Push, push, (*gasp*) breathe. Just a little far...WTF??? Do I live in the Alps???
But on I plod; I can feel the heat of my face turning, no doubt, beet freakin' red. I look at my fancy-dancy sports watch with its interval timer (the nee-nee-nee, nee-nee-nee sounds like my oven timer...mmmm...oven of baking yumminess...mmmmm...huh? Wazzat? Focus, girl, focus!!). I'm half way done, so I figure I'll make my way home. 5 blocks. 5 easy blocks. And one incredible, unignorable desire to poo.
Oh c'mon, now!!! REALLY?!? You're gonna do this to me now?? And the answer came back: hell, yeah!
You will of course have gathered that my pace increased exponentially. It did, along with the insanely insistent need to void myself. The thing about walking really fast is that the body will commence an up n' down motion that, coupled with gravity, practically pulls at yer innards craving to be yer outards. I was clenching my butt so tight I coulda minted dimes. I Kegel-ed like no woman has Kegel-ed before. It. Wasn't. Working.
I began to concentrate intently on Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech to get my mind off thangs (I use that speech to assess how drunk I am as well. Whole speech, have another. Midway, last one. As far as "or" and call me a cab.) So: To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the shits and arrows of outrageous bathrooms and to take arms against a sea of toilets...
Oh fuck, I can see my house! So close, so close, so...holy crap. I feel the unmistakable sensation of a kernel of poo emerging towards freedom. This can't be happening! It's daylight! Mother of Christ, what have I done to deserve this? I'm an adult in a cruel world - what will the neighbours think??? ("There goes shitty-drawers.")
At last, my house! My door! I'm pulling my sticky-with-I-hope-is-sweat pants and make it just in time. Almost. The kernel had invited a friend.
Tide? Bleach? Tilex? Toss the damn undies.
That was Day 1. I'm on Day 3 now. I don't leave my house until I'm utterly, indisputably clear of numbers 1 and 2. Especially 2. Undies don't grow on trees. And I don't believe Depends come in "Sport" models.
Lili La Large
