Out row, out last, out play


Dr. Oz maintains that men who lose weight will, on average, gain an extra inch of penis size.

I asked Scott about this today but he wasn’t telling. And as I’ve never used a ruler to measure it, I can’t tell.

He’s lost 30 pounds so far on our strange little weight loss journey.

During most of this time, he’s been nursing an injury which first occurred in the winter time; he fell trying to get into a car at work and ripped or strained something in his leg. Needless to say, he’s been on and off at the gymnasty while I have toiled away there most days for three months.

I admit it’s frustrating; I strain and I sweat and I’ve only lost about ten pounds to his thirty — which pisses me off.

Everyone says, don’t worry, you’re building muscle, right? But I want one of those Dr. Oz guarantees. I want Dr. Oz to tell me for every year I exercise, I’ll gain a year of life.

That would be enough at this point.

I have lost inches during this journey. Most of my large men’s t-shirts now look like dresses, so that’s encouraging.

Mostly, I feel much better, not like the 55-year-old I’m going to be in two weeks time. I actually feel like I’m about 35.

Thanks to these work outs,  I no longer suffer from panic disorder. I have a clear head and less stiffness in my joints (except for the damned foot which I still can’t walk on). I have a better outlook, I’m less tired and I’m much happier than I’ve been in a decade.

I also drink a lot less and I am more conscious of what I eat.

But here’s what I love the most.

When I get on the rowing machine, I watch a parade of other fitness freaks who pile on the other ones and do about five minutes, fifteen minutes tops, and then they get off. Most of these rowers are guys who are as young as my two sons and they can barely do a quarter of my workout. Today, I watched a guy, a really fit young guy, who was huffing and puffing at the same stroke rate as me. He was off the machine and into the weight room in twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, Rosie the Rowster was still pumping along, sweating profusely, but not out of breath for twenty minutes longer than his sorry ass.

That does this middle-aged girl good.

I may be getting old, but I’m still as competitive as ever.

I am the gym survivor: out row, out last, out play.

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