Well...it's been two days since I started P90X.
I'd like to say off the bat, having Kristen P90X with me, is a huge help. Nothing like her being much better at the aerobics steps than me. Many times I have felt I had two right feet. I looked down and was amazed I didn't.
Starting off the first day, I knew I was in trouble when I was winded during the opening stretching routine. Uh oh! And I run about 10-12 miles a week, yet P90X stretching...Whoa! Let's face it, I can't touch my feet when I'm leaning over, stretching. Can't do it. I'm ok with that. But, should I feel that tight? I know it'll get easier.
I'd also like to say for the record, these people are cyborgs. There's no way they are 100% human. They're doing all this punching, jumping, squatting motions (sometimes all at once) with a smile on their face. I've already screamed, "I hate you Tony!" (Tony's the leader of the cyborg cult). He's half evil, half robot. I think Bill Gates created him at Microsoft.
Here's what we've worked on so far...
Arms
Legs
Butt
Chest
You do things like pushups (I have a feeling I'm going to do about 10,000 of these by the end of 90 days), this Dreya Roll, which is this inhumane way of standing up, then sitting down (without using your arms to guide you onto the floor), then you're on your back, roll your legs over your head, then reverse it, and pop back up (again without using your arms to get up). You do this over and over and over again.
Let's say, I have a friend (ME) who isn't the best at this (ME), and uses his hands, arms AND knees to stand back up during Dreya Roll (Again ME!!!). I also love doing leg kicks over a stool. Good times. Had to pick up parts of my groin off the carpet for that one. Poor Tucker. I accidentally kicked him in the face during this. I thought he would be concussed. Instead, he kept his happy face on, tag wagging as if nothing happened. Tony would LOVE his tenacity. Then, tell him to do it only FIVE MORE TIMES!!
Not too sore yet. Some stiffness. Drinking lots of water.
We took before pictures. Not sure how to post them. I'm sure Kristen will show me.
Two days down...88 more to go.
Oh, and my buddy Tim also started P90X on Monday (without knowing that Kristen and I were also doing it). You remember Tim. He's the one that has the biggest appetite of anyone I know. He could eat an entire buffalo if we gave him enough time. After these 90 days, I hope he doesn't lose his will to eat. That would be the biggest loss of all.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The New Soon To Be Me
Before we get started, I just want to let you know...
The Streak Lives On! 5,208 days and counting. Even an All You Can Eat Meat Fest keeps the food down. Amazing! Like I've always said...The Streak is bigger than you and me.
But, onto new things, and a new chapter in my life.
Let's call this chapter...Hell!
At least that's what I've heard people call it.
No, I'm talking about the fact that starting Monday morning, Kristen and I are starting P90X. If you're unfamiliar with P90X, basically it works your entire body, section by section, for 90 straight days, with occasional days off, to what they call stretch, so that when you bend over to tie your shoes, you're able to straighten up.
I always ask a guy at work who is doing P90X..."James, how's it going?" "HELL". Or Shannon, "How's P90X?" "I can't move my arms." Well...then! There's that!
Here's a video of P90X...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQwHGiAyyBU&feature=channel
I love how they dare you at the end. That's always encouraging. Sounds like a real walk in the park.
How did I get myself involved with this? Oh yeah, less than four months until I get hitched, so I'd like to lose some of my "Baby Fat" before then. Granted, thirty years after the fact, but Baby Fat burns off right?
I wish I was technologically savvy enough to take a before and after picture of myself, and post it.
Oh...I found one of myself...
http://media.photobucket.com/image/chunk/shadys-lady/chunk.jpg
Hopefully, I won't look like that person on October 23rd.
Throughout "Hell", I will continuously track my progress to everyone so you can know where to send flowers in case of serious injury.
Also, for the next three months, I hope I'll be able to do the following...
Be able to tie my shoes and not ask for assistance.
Be able to pick up the camera at work...on second thought, I'd like to be able to straighten my arms and not cry.
Be able to wake up out of bed and not ask for a "Push".
Be able to sneeze and not worry about cracking a rib.
Be able to fork my own food into my mouth.
You know the little things.
I'll let you know how we do.
The Streak Lives On! 5,208 days and counting. Even an All You Can Eat Meat Fest keeps the food down. Amazing! Like I've always said...The Streak is bigger than you and me.
But, onto new things, and a new chapter in my life.
Let's call this chapter...Hell!
At least that's what I've heard people call it.
No, I'm talking about the fact that starting Monday morning, Kristen and I are starting P90X. If you're unfamiliar with P90X, basically it works your entire body, section by section, for 90 straight days, with occasional days off, to what they call stretch, so that when you bend over to tie your shoes, you're able to straighten up.
I always ask a guy at work who is doing P90X..."James, how's it going?" "HELL". Or Shannon, "How's P90X?" "I can't move my arms." Well...then! There's that!
Here's a video of P90X...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQwHGiAyyBU&feature=channel
I love how they dare you at the end. That's always encouraging. Sounds like a real walk in the park.
How did I get myself involved with this? Oh yeah, less than four months until I get hitched, so I'd like to lose some of my "Baby Fat" before then. Granted, thirty years after the fact, but Baby Fat burns off right?
I wish I was technologically savvy enough to take a before and after picture of myself, and post it.
Oh...I found one of myself...
http://media.photobucket.com/image/chunk/shadys-lady/chunk.jpg
Hopefully, I won't look like that person on October 23rd.
Throughout "Hell", I will continuously track my progress to everyone so you can know where to send flowers in case of serious injury.
Also, for the next three months, I hope I'll be able to do the following...
Be able to tie my shoes and not ask for assistance.
Be able to pick up the camera at work...on second thought, I'd like to be able to straighten my arms and not cry.
Be able to wake up out of bed and not ask for a "Push".
Be able to sneeze and not worry about cracking a rib.
Be able to fork my own food into my mouth.
You know the little things.
I'll let you know how we do.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Write this on my tombstone...
Things I'm most proud of in my life...
Graduating college
Successful in the television news industry
Leaving family and friends in New York and moving to Florida without knowing anyone
Meeting Kristen and having the opportunity to marry her
Not getting mugged in any of my shady apartment complexes (I've learned they're cheap for a reason)
The streak
It was a fateful night...March 24, 1996, I was a senior in high school. A friend of mine, who later turned out to be my college roommate, was having a party with non Gatorade beverages. That same night, Syracuse was playing in the Sweet 16 against Georgia. Anyone who knows me, puts up with my obsession with Syracuse basketball. This was a HUGE game for the 'Cuse. Top 15 team in the country, playing for a chance to make it to the Elite Eight. Syracuse down 2 with two seconds left. Inbounds pass from half court...Jason Cipolla catches it, throws it up...MAKES IT...ties the game...in overtime, Syracuse down 2 with ten seconds left...their best player...John Wallace...6'8"...a ball handler he is not...decides to bring the ball up...everyone within earshot of Syracuse hears the collective cry from the city..."NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"...he fumbles his way upcourt as gracefully as an ice skating pig...throws up a 3...and NAILS IT!!!! Syracuse wins.
And I celebrate as if I'm in the heap of the Syracuse players. From that moment on, the non Gatorade beverages were flowing at an increased rate.
Looking back on it...all I remember after the game is stumbling out of the bathroom as cops inform me I've had too much to drink. Very insightful.
Friends gave me a ride home and I proceed to make it out of the driveway before I lose what wasn't Gatorade onto a poor, unsuspecting sidewalk.
Everything after that horn sounded to end the game was a moment I'd like to forget.
Unfortunately, I can't. From that moment on...the streak was born.
There are many famous streaks out there....
Joe DiMaggio hitting safely in 56 straight games.
Cal Ripken playing in 2632 straight games.
Wilt Chamberlain sleeping with different women in 1284 consecutive days.
Dad eating the cookies I leave out for Santa, right in front of me, on the night of Christmas Eve, for the last five years.
Mine...
It's been 14 plus years since I've thrown up.
There were some close calls.
Like the May 2000 incident, the night before college graduation, standing over the toilet, reading the streak it's last rites. I made my peace with it. But, it survived.
Or the times I see people on the "teacups" at Disney World. That gives me the queasies.
I bring this up, because two days ago, intestinal forecasters warned me that there is a vomit warning on the horizon, possibly making landfall around Saturday night.
Hey, that sucks...that's the same night as my Bachelor Party and I don't want to have to leave my guys, so I can be sick and miss out on all of the fun and...
OH...
UH OH...
Now I see...
Not Good.
Here is the itinerary...
Late morning...Beer Olympics...caps...cornhole...beer pong.
Make an appearance at the shower my Mom is throwing Kristen. AKA...don't be so buzzed that you're a moron. Show up, sit up and shut up. Well, not the last part, I needed another "s". I do have to contribute...things like..."That's a lovely bowl" or "I've always wanted that glassware" or "I can die a happy man knowing my love got the dishes she always wanted."
After that, more Beer Olympics...followed by a drive to Niagara Falls. Casino, drinking and eating. My favorite part...a dinner at an all you can eat Brazilian steakhouse. You know what that means...
A meat-off between my brother Kevin, who's penchant for throwing down food in mass quantities is growing more legendary the older he gets (you should have seen what he did to the Bellagio Buffet...I thought they were going to call security and have us escorted out of there because the food didn't have a chance of surviving) vs Tim who was born that way, and eats more than any other person I've ever met. Old School vs New School. Mentor vs Student. It's the Meat-Off. We should pay per view this thing.
After this....more drinking.
I'm getting the sense Kevin wants to see me lose the streak.
Sadly enough, I've been proud of the streak for years and years. I'm excited it's lasted this long. I hope it doesn't flame out this weekend. I'll be really sad.
I've realized the streak is bigger than you and me. I just hope it continues to live, so we can all share in the good news.
Graduating college
Successful in the television news industry
Leaving family and friends in New York and moving to Florida without knowing anyone
Meeting Kristen and having the opportunity to marry her
Not getting mugged in any of my shady apartment complexes (I've learned they're cheap for a reason)
The streak
It was a fateful night...March 24, 1996, I was a senior in high school. A friend of mine, who later turned out to be my college roommate, was having a party with non Gatorade beverages. That same night, Syracuse was playing in the Sweet 16 against Georgia. Anyone who knows me, puts up with my obsession with Syracuse basketball. This was a HUGE game for the 'Cuse. Top 15 team in the country, playing for a chance to make it to the Elite Eight. Syracuse down 2 with two seconds left. Inbounds pass from half court...Jason Cipolla catches it, throws it up...MAKES IT...ties the game...in overtime, Syracuse down 2 with ten seconds left...their best player...John Wallace...6'8"...a ball handler he is not...decides to bring the ball up...everyone within earshot of Syracuse hears the collective cry from the city..."NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"...he fumbles his way upcourt as gracefully as an ice skating pig...throws up a 3...and NAILS IT!!!! Syracuse wins.
And I celebrate as if I'm in the heap of the Syracuse players. From that moment on, the non Gatorade beverages were flowing at an increased rate.
Looking back on it...all I remember after the game is stumbling out of the bathroom as cops inform me I've had too much to drink. Very insightful.
Friends gave me a ride home and I proceed to make it out of the driveway before I lose what wasn't Gatorade onto a poor, unsuspecting sidewalk.
Everything after that horn sounded to end the game was a moment I'd like to forget.
Unfortunately, I can't. From that moment on...the streak was born.
There are many famous streaks out there....
Joe DiMaggio hitting safely in 56 straight games.
Cal Ripken playing in 2632 straight games.
Wilt Chamberlain sleeping with different women in 1284 consecutive days.
Dad eating the cookies I leave out for Santa, right in front of me, on the night of Christmas Eve, for the last five years.
Mine...
It's been 14 plus years since I've thrown up.
There were some close calls.
Like the May 2000 incident, the night before college graduation, standing over the toilet, reading the streak it's last rites. I made my peace with it. But, it survived.
Or the times I see people on the "teacups" at Disney World. That gives me the queasies.
I bring this up, because two days ago, intestinal forecasters warned me that there is a vomit warning on the horizon, possibly making landfall around Saturday night.
Hey, that sucks...that's the same night as my Bachelor Party and I don't want to have to leave my guys, so I can be sick and miss out on all of the fun and...
OH...
UH OH...
Now I see...
Not Good.
Here is the itinerary...
Late morning...Beer Olympics...caps...cornhole...beer pong.
Make an appearance at the shower my Mom is throwing Kristen. AKA...don't be so buzzed that you're a moron. Show up, sit up and shut up. Well, not the last part, I needed another "s". I do have to contribute...things like..."That's a lovely bowl" or "I've always wanted that glassware" or "I can die a happy man knowing my love got the dishes she always wanted."
After that, more Beer Olympics...followed by a drive to Niagara Falls. Casino, drinking and eating. My favorite part...a dinner at an all you can eat Brazilian steakhouse. You know what that means...
A meat-off between my brother Kevin, who's penchant for throwing down food in mass quantities is growing more legendary the older he gets (you should have seen what he did to the Bellagio Buffet...I thought they were going to call security and have us escorted out of there because the food didn't have a chance of surviving) vs Tim who was born that way, and eats more than any other person I've ever met. Old School vs New School. Mentor vs Student. It's the Meat-Off. We should pay per view this thing.
After this....more drinking.
I'm getting the sense Kevin wants to see me lose the streak.
Sadly enough, I've been proud of the streak for years and years. I'm excited it's lasted this long. I hope it doesn't flame out this weekend. I'll be really sad.
I've realized the streak is bigger than you and me. I just hope it continues to live, so we can all share in the good news.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A One Sided Mismatch
Ever say to yourself, "What did I do to deserve this?"
Had one of those moments this morning as I was on my way to work.
I walked outside and I noticed my silver Honda Accord was littered...no littered isn't a strong enough word...MASSACRED in bird poop. My car had no chance. There must have been thirty different spots hit. The windshield, the hood, the roof, the side windows (always a tough angle for them). What those birds did to my car isn't humane. They must have been circling my car over and over, having a contest with one another.
"Hey Jermaine...watch this...(drops)...OHHHHH!!!! That was a good one. Right on the door handle. He's going to have a tough one getting that off his hands."
Either that, or it was one single bird that had WAY too much Mexican last night. If that's the case, I honestly want to send it to a vet and get it's digestive system cleaned. Give it some Imodium, nurse it back to health and send it on it's way.
I would have taken a picture but it was the middle of the night, I don't own a camera or a phone that has flash. I'm really up on the times.
At first, I thought it was the "neighborhood kids", and I don't even know if there are "neighborhood kids", but it's always easier to blame it on them. I thought they painted my car white...I'm not kidding.
I noticed that no other car got hit in the parking lot. So, I spent five minutes looking up research to my long held belief that birds like using silver cars as their own personal porta potties. I came up with about eight other people having the same experience that their silver cars got crushed in a parking lot or driveway and not a speck anywhere else.
Mind you, I haven't had great experiences with birds. Over the last three years, I've been hit twice in the head by our hawk. No, we don't own a hawk, but every year there's a hawk at work who spends a couple months divebombing my co-workers. And the tv station can't do anything about it. We're told by Fish and Wildlife that because they're endangered (as opposed to my head), we have to leave them alone. So, they continue picking us off like target practice and we take it. "Thank you sir, may I have another."
All in all, birds and I aren't cohabitating together right now. Not until they stop using my car as target practice...or until they lay off the Mexican.
Had one of those moments this morning as I was on my way to work.
I walked outside and I noticed my silver Honda Accord was littered...no littered isn't a strong enough word...MASSACRED in bird poop. My car had no chance. There must have been thirty different spots hit. The windshield, the hood, the roof, the side windows (always a tough angle for them). What those birds did to my car isn't humane. They must have been circling my car over and over, having a contest with one another.
"Hey Jermaine...watch this...(drops)...OHHHHH!!!! That was a good one. Right on the door handle. He's going to have a tough one getting that off his hands."
Either that, or it was one single bird that had WAY too much Mexican last night. If that's the case, I honestly want to send it to a vet and get it's digestive system cleaned. Give it some Imodium, nurse it back to health and send it on it's way.
I would have taken a picture but it was the middle of the night, I don't own a camera or a phone that has flash. I'm really up on the times.
At first, I thought it was the "neighborhood kids", and I don't even know if there are "neighborhood kids", but it's always easier to blame it on them. I thought they painted my car white...I'm not kidding.
I noticed that no other car got hit in the parking lot. So, I spent five minutes looking up research to my long held belief that birds like using silver cars as their own personal porta potties. I came up with about eight other people having the same experience that their silver cars got crushed in a parking lot or driveway and not a speck anywhere else.
Mind you, I haven't had great experiences with birds. Over the last three years, I've been hit twice in the head by our hawk. No, we don't own a hawk, but every year there's a hawk at work who spends a couple months divebombing my co-workers. And the tv station can't do anything about it. We're told by Fish and Wildlife that because they're endangered (as opposed to my head), we have to leave them alone. So, they continue picking us off like target practice and we take it. "Thank you sir, may I have another."
All in all, birds and I aren't cohabitating together right now. Not until they stop using my car as target practice...or until they lay off the Mexican.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Why are you defending yourself?
I was driving around in sunny Florida today and I noticed a truck with a sticker on it's window that said the following...
"I'll take my guns, my freedom and my money and you can have the change."
First off, what does that mean? Your change? I have no idea what you're offering me. I'm a fairly intelligent individual. I got an 1120 on my SAT's before they completely changed the scoring. Now an 1120 will land you on a PROP 48 list for a college basketball recruit. Next, you're going to have shady characters named Rocco knocking on your door asking you if they can take your next SAT exam for you, so you can play point guard for their favorite college basketball program. But, for me, I don't think my college fraternity, Kappa Alpha, was hiring anyone on my behalf, so I could squeeze onto the fraternity's intramural volleyball team.
Second, why do gun owners feel the need to show off to fellow drivers the fact that they own a gun? Last I heard, you don't need a gun in order to put a car into ignition, drive 60 mph in a 35 mph zone, weave in and around cars with no turn signals, cross two lanes of traffic, stop on a dime, just so they can pull into Publix; at least that's how they drive in Florida.
Here are the following gun bumper stickers that you just COULDN'T live without...
Gun Control Means Using Both Hands
Gun Control Means Hitting Your Target
A Gun In The Hand Is Better Than A Cop On The Phone
See...now you can sleep better knowing these are out there.
Some gun owners scream..."Second Amendment rights." Thanks. I know that you're allowed to own a gun. I don't need a bumper sticker to remind me of that fact. It's my right to own an iPod. I'm not going to make up a bumper sticker that says..."I'm spinning tunes with Apple. You can have my core."
I just don't understand the need to tell me you're packing. Next time, I'm wondering, I'll ask. Until then...get your gun out of my face. I need two eyes on the road before I get cut off again.
"I'll take my guns, my freedom and my money and you can have the change."
First off, what does that mean? Your change? I have no idea what you're offering me. I'm a fairly intelligent individual. I got an 1120 on my SAT's before they completely changed the scoring. Now an 1120 will land you on a PROP 48 list for a college basketball recruit. Next, you're going to have shady characters named Rocco knocking on your door asking you if they can take your next SAT exam for you, so you can play point guard for their favorite college basketball program. But, for me, I don't think my college fraternity, Kappa Alpha, was hiring anyone on my behalf, so I could squeeze onto the fraternity's intramural volleyball team.
Second, why do gun owners feel the need to show off to fellow drivers the fact that they own a gun? Last I heard, you don't need a gun in order to put a car into ignition, drive 60 mph in a 35 mph zone, weave in and around cars with no turn signals, cross two lanes of traffic, stop on a dime, just so they can pull into Publix; at least that's how they drive in Florida.
Here are the following gun bumper stickers that you just COULDN'T live without...
Gun Control Means Using Both Hands
Gun Control Means Hitting Your Target
A Gun In The Hand Is Better Than A Cop On The Phone
See...now you can sleep better knowing these are out there.
Some gun owners scream..."Second Amendment rights." Thanks. I know that you're allowed to own a gun. I don't need a bumper sticker to remind me of that fact. It's my right to own an iPod. I'm not going to make up a bumper sticker that says..."I'm spinning tunes with Apple. You can have my core."
I just don't understand the need to tell me you're packing. Next time, I'm wondering, I'll ask. Until then...get your gun out of my face. I need two eyes on the road before I get cut off again.
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