Listen- I've not done a lick of physical activity since my last post. I had all manner of good intentions, but the pull of Netflix and potato chips was stronger. Watching episodes of "Til Death" and nacho cheese Doritos are the perfect Jaded Escape. But it's not healthy so let's move on.
This morning I met with my new trainer, Hector, for the first of a two-day-a-week, five-week training schedule. CHILD.
First of all, I decided to schedule these sessions at the ass-crack of dawn in Manhattan, when the only people riding the rails are scary, scruffy-looking, blue-collar Russian and Mexican men who side-eye me as if I walked in donning a swastika and an INS badge. Excuse me, Ivan and Paco, I'm just trying to get my workout on. Go back to your Daily News, coffee and buttered roll. Mmmmm, butter...
Secondly, WHO SCHEDULES WORKOUTS IN A DIFFERENT BOROUGH AT THE ASS-CRACK OF DAWN, ON A WEDNESDAY, RAQUEL?
Finally, OUCH. Being out of shape blows.
I didn't take a "before" picture, weigh or measure myself because I have a good mirror. I know what's not working on my body ::looks at midsection:: and I know what needs to be done. I'll know I'm #WINNING once my jeans stop creating this muffin top situation and my bra doesn't pronounce my back fat to the world. I'll know everything is okay when I can run up the stairs and not feel winded or dizzy (although I'm pretty sure the dizziness is the result of something else. No, not a baby. My uterus is out of commission right now, remember?) and I can bench press Mari. And if in the end this gets me some good ass sleep at night? Bonus!
But let me just say this: Pulling that god-awful ogre-rope with a 40-lb kettlebell weight attached to it, and jumping on and off some stupid little platform, is something the devil made. I'd better be able to kick Ivan and Paco's asses after these five weeks or I'm gonna eat some faces!
*smooches...bitter because I had to wake up so early*
also? fuck jumping jacks!