March Flabness

It appears it’s that time of the year again.  Where enough time has passed since the holidays that I should have shed my overindulgences.  And the time of the year when I realize that I haven’t.  Which also coincides nicely with time of the year when I realize I have no pants left that fit me.

Blame it on the polar vortex.  Or that massive upper respiratory infection that plagued me for most of this new year.  Or the three different Girl Scouts that, in us, saw easy targets and went for the kill.  Whatever the excuse, I have lost my motivation along with my waistline.

So what more perfect way to celebrate my inactivity and lack of inertia than by revising this post that originally appeared here last March?  Because, apparently I’ve learned nothing from my past.  Enjoy!

 

Forgive me Tony Horton, famous trainer and creator of the ridiculously crazy P90X workouts, for I have sinned.  It has been seven months since I’ve done anything that could be remotely considered a “work out”.

Since then, I have strayed from the flock.  I have fallen from grace.  I have sat on my derriere too long.

Yay, while I sneak in an occasional yoga class, it does not absolve me of the extra dimples on my butt cheeks.

I covet pants the next size up.  I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror anymore.  Gone is any trace of my professional dancing days.  I alternate between wearing the same two pairs of jeans.  And Tony help me if I should have to wash one.  As they say, I am hitting critical mass.

Strength and flexibility have withered away, and I am now left quivering in Downward Dog.  I curse your crazy Dive Bomber push-ups, as there is no way in workout hell that I can do one anymore.  I place faith in your core strengthening circuit that I may be able to open a jar of pickles again sometime soon.

I have not been bringing it.  Nor have I even even bought it.  And I certainly haven’t done my best and forgotten the rest.

But, Tony, motivation has left me.  While I realize returning to the flock could change my outlook on life and expand my wardrobe, I cannot seem to muster the energy to put in a DVD and sweat to the sight of your gloriously white teeth.

I have been swayed by the comfort of my plush sofa and the distraction of Modern Family and Breaking Bad on Netflix.  Please excuse time commitments to my kids’ school that has cut in to my devotion to you and your martial arts workout.  Believe me, I would much rather be gritting my teeth while my thighs are on fire during leg squats than getting suckered in to volunteer work.

I have sinned with Costco-sized bags of tortilla chips and large vats of Nutella.  I have lost sight of portion size.  I have been persuaded by the dark side that is Girl Scout Cookies and left-over Valentine’s Day candy.  Help me, Oh Tony, get back on the path of righteous eating and Salads of Exaltation.

It has been months since I have embraced your corny jokes.  It’s been even longer since I have visited with Brother Shaun T and his Insanity, or spent quality time with Leandro in his Temple of Brazilian Butts.   I am but a lost, soft sheep wandering aimlessly in oversized mom jeans, dreading the shock that is Shorts Season.

Show me the way back to physical fitness, Tony Horton.  Help me to resolve the error of my sloth-like ways.

I will repent with three sets of sneaky lunges, several rounds of abdominal exercises, and a host of plyometrics sessions.

In the name of the Pull-up, the Burpee, and the Mason Twist…Amen.