Burn, baby, burn! (Calories, that is)

Whoever thought of exercising in the winter was e-vil. The fru-its of the dev-il(all credit to Mike Meyers). In fact, I'll go so far as to say they are sick. Someone tranquilize them before they come up with another flash of cruel brilliance.




First of all, winter is not kind to skin color. The freakish, unnatural shades of white my skin can achieve in the winter may, in fact, be signs of some genetic mutation run amok, and this doesn't even begin to touch upon the unholy texture.




Secondly, exercise fashions are not made to conceal the lumpy, day-old oatmeal color and texture of a winterized me. How, pray tell, is the exposure of such a thing supposed to encourage me to want to move to the point where the oatmeal DANCES in the fiendish, frenetic motion of Jell-O on crack, all while staining my face a wholly unattractive shade of purple-red, severely compromising my ability to breathe and causing previously unmolested, peacable muscles to quiver in pain, fear and degradation?! I ask you!!!!





And yet, I persevere. Why? Because I was gullible enough to believe some liar on an infomercial who said the oatmeal look didn't have to be permanent. That I could have ripped abs, lethal guns, and rockin' thighs that would make Cindy Crawford weep with envy. All I have to do is make the oatmeal dance the Crack Dance for a little while every day.







What never ceases to amaze me is that there are people who are brave enough to do the Crack Dance in PUBLIC!! I lack such spine and gumption. No. No, I will do my belly-flopping push-ups and weepy, gasping crunches in the confines of my tightly locked, blinds-drawn, LIGHTS OFF house. No one will see me drop that 5-lb. dumbell on my head because my wussy arm muscles gave out mid-tricep lift. I will strain in solitude for one more sidekick as my hip flexors scream for mercy, offering to make a deal with my skin to erase all stretch marks, if I will just make it STOP! I prefer to have no audience as I collapse in a now mushy puddle of oatmeal, clawing the ground in the vain hope that it will bring more oxygen into my ravaged body.


All this, so I may one day say....




Cry, Cindy, cry!