Getting old is like having the elastic come out of your underwear.
You’re like the old bra with the safety pins in it, or the Y fronts that have long ago stopped sucking in your balls.
Saggy, saggy everywhere.
Nothing bounces back. All give.
So for me to give myself over to a personal trainer at my tender age is, well, pretty brave.
But I’m up for it.
I have a new face thanks to Dr. Greg so I need the body to match. That’s why I’m embarking on a fitness journey to end my war against the flab. My new gym, the Athletic Centre in Ottawa, has graciously given me a few complimentary personal training sessions.
I had my first one yesterday with Tracy, a cute blonde looks like Kristen Bell, you know, Sarah Marshall. She was sweet and understanding, and I was pumped.
Unfortunately, I nearly hit the ground in early innings thanks to an inner ear issue, which caused Sarah Marshall some great alarm. I had to stop her from reaching for the defib.
“No dear, it’s okay. I have what Brian Mulroney has.”
I also have bad feet and tendons and they aren’t any better thanks to years of inactivity and wine drinking. They seemed to work great while I was at the gym, but caused me great consternation once I sat in my wonderful Ekornes chair. Couldn’t get up. No way, no how.
I fell asleep at 7 p.m. to Scott’s dismay as we’ve just bought the latest season of Weeds.
So he sat up last night playing some gory combat game on the PS3 while I reclined and snoozed with the pugs. Must say, I got a great sleep last night, and I was at it again at the gym today.
I know myself. For this to work, I have to go every day.
No excuse. I’m horribly underemployed and I could easily manage 16 hours to workout at the gym instead of the same number of hours playing Zelda.
I settled today for an hour on the bike with Will and Grace.
Had to write this blog before I seized up again. Great to know I still have muscles under all this flab.
Keep ya posted.