Four days into the ridiculous workout program was Yoga Day — a day I foolishly saw as a mid-week rest after three days of leg and arm work. Me: Idiot.
My first clue should have been discovering, and double-taking, that whereas the other workouts are about 60 minutes, this yoga session was 90 (including warmups/cooldowns). My second clue should have been that the yoga session starts with a bunch of “warrior” this and that stances that are essentially various upper body stretches while in a lunge stance.
My legs — which thanks to hockey completed the first few days much better than my weak core did — burn. They just burn. So standing in various lunge stances was not welcome.
And knowing that I didn’t have time to squeeze in 90 minutes, I committed to doing just half the yoga session. (I did say “corners will be cut.”) I just picked the wrong half. Turns out the second half was more work on the ground — the kind of floor stretches and reaches that cripple me but which I desperately need, and which do not work my aching upper leg muscles as much.
Then last night I played hockey for the first time during this program, and my leg muscles just cried after about two sprints on each shift — this is absolutely why I don’t do stuff like this during our hockey season. But it was good. I was able to play. And I woke up craving today’s workout. Not sure if I’ll be singing from the same hymnal next week, but we’ll see. Just 86 more days to go!
I’m doing one of those DVD workout regimen things. The kind they show on TV via an infomercial with an annoying ripped gym rat touting its benefits and using some kind of catchphrase that challenges both your manhood and your ability to be an Upstanding Human all in three words.
It’s very unlike me. But I can explain.
It started with my sister, whose resistance to pop culture and general marketing crap I respect. So when she brought this program up, my normal instinctual scoffing at mass culture was disarmed. (Oh, how Mrs. Fall of Because would die to master the ability to disarm this scoffing.)
This sister has always been very athletic, but she was looking to get back into a groove after spending long stretches of the last decade being, as they say, “with child.” She wanted a workout partner; I was still in hockey season and rehabbing wrist and thumb injuries that would keep me from committing to a daily thing all too ready to make excuses like my pushup-hindring hand injury, particularly since I couldn’t dismiss the program as infomercial junk.
So she marched on without me, and it turns out it’s a nice workout program (there’s a “P” and there’s a “[3 times thirty]” in it, but I’d rather not draw the search results by referring to its name.) More importantly to me, it’s one that has a variety of sessions that work areas of my physiology I’ve long neglected. I’m kind of lazy in that through luck and genetics I could count on hockey, laughably minimal weightlifting and occasional biking/running to keep me reasonably fit. Still have my college weight, so I figure that’s a good thing.
Postponing the Inevitable Only Lasts So Long
But I’ve always been horribly inflexible, my back is hindered by my height, my core strength is laughable for someone who plays hockey as much as I do, and I have several weak areas that have atrophied from lack of use, injury, sitting at a computer, general laziness, etc. I’ve always known I’d have to address some of these areas or else age less gracefully than I’d prefer. The roaring 20s now spent, it’s time to deal with it.
So here we go. The program pledges to transform your body in three months — and, having experienced Day One and taken a gander at the rest of the program, I can confidently declare that’s no bullshit. But my aim isn’t to “transform.” I just want to fix areas of sorry weakness. So…some corners may be cut. I’m just happy to have a varied workout and specific instruction without having to interact with people. Particularly people who work out.
I won’t turn this blog into a workout journal, but I hope to record impressions as I go through this curiously American method of Self-Torture in the Name of Self-Betterment. I figure it’s a situation ripe for some humor.
For instance, I started it yesterday, and today my body feels torn to shreds after doing a bunch of the upper body and core work instructed on Day 1. I woke up feeling like I’d been thrown down a flight of stairs. But that’s all cool: As today has gone on, the soreness has started to feel good — in that nearly sadistic way that muscle pain feels when you’ve worked, but not destroyed a muscle group. I haven’t felt this since my roommate — a future physical therapist, naturally — worked me out back in college, and I loved it, and I was naturally in the best shape of my life. (It’s amazing what you can do and how fun life can be when your only concerns are sex, beer, food and learning amazing stuff, in an order of priority that shuffles daily.)
This “good” intense soreness: It’s different from skiing or hiking or stuff like that, because those fun adventures inevitably work the same muscle group repeatedly, to exhaustion, over the course of three or four days.
So as today has progressed I’ve increasingly felt that addicted-to-pain instinct in my brain. The feeling of atrophied minor muscles reawakened, brought back to life as if to say, “We should be part of your daily movement too, couch bum.”
And that excites and scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to love non-interesting (i.e. not via sport or transport or social) workouts. I don’t want to be excited about pain. Yet here I am already looking forward to Day 2.
…Which is why I’m writing this down now, before the Day 2 workout happens. Because I’m pretty sure after today’s workout is over, those optimistic thoughts will change. The next journal entry will more likely be: “WTF?! God this hurts. I’m in hell. Working out is stupid. No way I can do 88 more days. Oooh look: Hockey’s on TV!”
What more can I do for you? I humidify, I dust, I hydrate — and now I even shoot salt water up you to keep you happy. And yet you rebel and make daily life a headache.
So you know what? I hate you. If I could do it without fatal error, I would cut you out and feed you to foul birds like some such carrion. Hopefully they would peck at you and regurgitate you to extend your symbolic misery the way you have extended mine, for years, winter after winter, later extending to spring and fall, too.
Since that bit of revenge seems about as feasible as beating a sinus infection, I have other ideas: I hope that when I die, the lab technician or organ harvesters or gross anatomy students who deal with me cut you open and laugh at you. “Look at these ugly sinuses,” they’ll say. “What a pointless life they led. Bahahaha, stupid, pathetic little sinuses.”
Then when one of the students says, “Guys, come on, let’s have some respect for the dead,” the rest of them will say, “But we are. Look at these evil sinuses, how shameful they are. Obviously this is what the deceased would have wanted.”