That hurts.

Pain sucks. 

And right now I’m in a world of hurt.

A few days ago I launched myself full throttle into a workout regimen and today I’m hobbling around with wooden legs and arms.  None of my joints will bend.  It hurts to lower myself onto the toilet seat.  Pulling off my sweatshirt last night became a 2-step process…I had to stop halfway to convince my arms that yes, they did indeed have to get that shirt over my head.

Figured I’d feel better this morning. 


Late last year I was enthralled, once again, by the keenly insightful marketing techniques employed by Beachbody, a fitness company that posts phenominal before/after photos of people who have completed their various workout programs.  I became absolutely mesmerized by their P90x infomercial.  It seemed like whenever I was channel surfing, Tony Horton was on TV encouraging me to get off my lazy arse and get fit.

Finally, one cold winter night in a Helena, Montana hotel room…I got online and ordered the 90-day program.   That 90 days, I surmised, would carry me through the holiday season and right up to the doorstep of my annual vacation in Mexico.  I’d have one helluva body by the time I hopped aboard the plane to paradise!

I dished out the $120 for the program and likewise purchased the highly recommended chinup bar.  I eagerly anticipated the delivery of the program, and when it arrived I poured over all the enclosed instructions.   The workouts are on a series of DVDs and the mantra Just push play… is repeated during each session.

I did indeed push play for 3 weeks, until I succumbed to what I considered a heavy work schedule with a good deal of travel.  I’ve never felt comfortable sweating in hotel gyms, which put the kabosh on physical activity.  And restaurant carryout after a 10-hour day is an effective sedative.   My dream of attaining beach body status was mired in place, like a spoon stuck in a scoop of frozen custard.

When I stepped aboard the plane, I headed to Mexico looking like a typical middle-aged woman from the north.  Soft and slightly lumpy, this white pudge nonetheless cavorted on the beach and enyoyed Coronas and ceviche. 

But stepping onto the scale on my birthday convinced me to re-start the P90x regimen – which I did a few days ago.  I’ve got two workouts under my belt and my muscles are screaming for relief.  I’ve also been eating clean for three days.  

Detox is tough but I’m hippyk, and I have a problem.

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