Ghosts of Fitness Past

I'll admit, I'm a sucker for advertising.  I really ought to set parental controls for infomercials and start wearing those horse blinders through department stores.  Of course, I am forever grateful to the late-night ordering that led me to Beachbody, but there were many pitfalls and stops along the way.  Not all of them were unworthy, but none kept my interest piqued for quite so long.  Let's take a gander at my ghosts of fitness past, shall we?

My earliest workout memory involves shiny spandex and high ponytails and muscles of steel.  Before I stood before my mirror to tease my bangs, scrunch my permed hair, or tuck-and-roll my stonewashed jeans, I crunched and squeezed with Tamilee Webb.  I longed to have her flat little tummy and tight little tush.  Alas, our mornings together, though beginning with much gusto, became infrequent and eventually nonexistent.  We never had an official breakup; there was simply a time when I no longer loaded that VHS tape nor packed it for my move to college.

The same was true for my thighmaster (yes, I had one).  I saw that commercial and thought, "How easy! I can watch TV and let my eyes glaze over while I create the perfect thighs!"  Damn you, Chrissy Snow, for creating such high hopes.  I cannot imagine how many squeezes one must do each day to attain those slender thighs, but I do know it was far more than I ever did.  Another advertising dream dashed, I stuffed the thighmaster under my daybed with my cassette tapes, never to be used again.

Things improved slightly in college.  I gained a fitness buddy and we developed a slight obsession with Kathy Ireland and everything she hawked in KMart.  (Did I mention that said university was located in rural PA and KMart was the closest approximation to a mall in our vicinity?)  We hopped through grapevines, pulsed through leg raises, and reached through stretches.  Kathy travelled with me to my first post-college home, but when I discovered gym life and a DVD player, she no longer made the cut.  Although, now that she is selling furniture, I find myself wanting once again to buy from her.  I suppose those fond memories of awkward toe taps and low-budget filming will always leave me with a soft spot for her.

Around this time I also developed a keen interest in tae bo and Billy Blanks.  This is where I began to actually work out - that is, when I stopped doing low-key and every-now-and-then workouts and started putting in actual effort and regularity.  And, coincidentally, began seeing actual results from my dedication.  I barely made it through my first tae bo session; within months, I was teaching classes at my local gym and pushing people to work harder.  So, thank you, Mr. Blanks.  To this day, I still enjoy the occasional sweat with you.

More recently, I (along with the rest of America) became aware of Jillian Michaels.  I found her so compelling that I purchased her DVD's, her book, and a treadmill with her voice.  Through following the regimen in Making The Cut, both Hubby and I found relatively quick results.  Alas, the time spent on food prep and travelling to the gym cut too severely into our time with the kids and each other.  We looked fabulous.  But we were ex-haust-ed. 

So what to do?  P90X!  And then Chalene!  And then Shaun T!  Bliss!  Sweet, sweet torture.  We are home; we can get results with an hour or less a day; we can do it whenever suits us.  No class schedule or childcare required.  No sharing space, no other people's sweat, no waiting for class to start.  We press play and we're on our way.  This...this is my key to working out.  Yes, it's popular.  Yes, I found it through an infomercial.  However...this is no fad.  These are actual exercises that work.  Plus, they're FUN.  We are happy campers here at the M&M Estate.

So, once again, I advise you to figure out YOUR soulmate workout.  Do classes motivate you?  Do you like the face time with a live instructor?  Do you need to squeeze your workouts into an already crazy schedule?  Do you wanna dance/lift/kick/punch/stretch?  Ask yourself - what is the most fun I've ever had doing a physical activity (hey! perverts!)?  THAT is your soulmate workout.  Still unsure?  Contact me.  I'll tell you what to do.  Because I enjoy being bossy like that.

queenie3431@hotmail.com
https://www.facebook.com/#!/queensweat

The Garage Of My Dreams

Ideally, my favorite place to sweatitout is outdoors, just me and my Ghosts and my iPod.  Hours melt away and my head gets clear and I see a glimmer of just how far I've come in my training.  But what about those days I can't, for various reasons (children, weather, children, time, children), get out of the house?  Sadly, for now I am stuck in my living room, alongside a defunct treadmill (which I must remember to call about), a dilapidated card table serving as my computer desk, a pack-n-play filled with toddler distractions, and a recliner (the last remnant of our actual living room furniture).  It is, to put it mildly, not the most motivational area in which to work out.  I do have a mirror in which I can watch the upper 1/4 of myself complete exercises, and my determined stare is difficult to resist.  But still, I dream of a day when I (meaning: Hubby) turns our stuffed-to-the-gills-with-crap garage into a wide open space of workout mats, weight sets, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors to reflect my perfect form (hey, I have to assume it's perfect on the bottom 3/4 as well).

I can lose lots of workout minutes browsing Pinterest for home gym ideas.  I love the idea of old lockers for storage and wire baskets for pristine white towels with which to mop my sweat.  I envision a brand new set of Selecttech weights (replacing the mismatched sets purchased piecemeal from WalMart and Target over the years) anticipating my gloved hands.  They rest next to my working treadmill, complete with iFit and Jillian's voice telling me to "Step it up!"  Of course, I will have motivational posters plastered over every non-mirrored inch of wall space to remind me of what I'm working toward, those well-muscled, glistening bodies of fit persons flexed next to all-caps phrases refuting any and all excuses.  Out my window, I'll see my Olympic sized swimming pool and running track...Okay, I may have to give those up for a plastic wading pool and the street, but the rest is completely doable! 

Not only would I finally have access to SPACE allowing me to go all out all the time, I would have access to SPACE AWAY FROM THE CHILDREN.  I love them, I really really do...but they have this habit of not needing me until they catch me in the middle of a TurboFire Fire Drill or mid-crunchy Frog during Ab Ripper X.  The rule of "Don't ask Mommy questions while Mommy is working out unless they relate to your blood flow" never seems to quite sink into their adorable little heads.  They deem Dad unfit for settling fights over who must bathe first (it really doesn't matter which it is; they always want the opposite) or what the reading assignment is for bedtime (although it never changes).  Nor can Dad tell them where exactly to find their suddenly much desired Silly Putty, charm bracelet, or 3D glasses.  Only Mom can answer these riddles, and apparently, only in the midst of intense exercise.  Moments before I press play, I can say their names 100 times or tell them to complete their chores and receive no answer.  The moment I finish my cool down, they have no use for me.  It seems I am just as appealing to them as I am to myself during those sweaty breathless moments of P90X.  I suppose I can't really blame them, but still...I yearn for my own private garage-gym, paces away from the chaos of the mini M&M's.

Right now, I have forced the older boys into cleaning the aftermath of the hurricane that localized in their bedroom; my daughter lies in my bed with a cough and headache, quietly watching Sponge Bob; and the toddler is just about to go down for his own nap.  Whilst I have them all occupied, I plan to quietly slip into some spandex, mix up some E&E, and groove with Shaun T...until they catch me in my illicit activities...