The dark side of a healthy life

Something happen to people who take the plunge into the ocean of healthy living. Besides the fact that most simply  drown and get washed up on the beach of fat and failure, some actually learn to stay afloat. The ones who manage to control some kind of satisfying exercise regime that fits nicely into the niche between a coach potato and marathon runner.  Other freaks turn into really strong ultra swimmers and they end up as poster children for transformation and the power of the human spirit.

For the few of us who stay afloat, it implies we struggle through a daily sacrifice of sleep, in exchange for sweat and perseverance.  Not mentioning stuffing our faces with everything that is far from delicious. Because let’s state the obvious; if it’s worth eating, it’s gonna make you buy a bigger dress size. So we tend to stick with pieces of cardboard infused with green inspired shit salads because we are actually sad human beings desperately seeking attention.   Continue reading

Advertisements

Gym will never be the same again.

I’ve been busy.  On all fronts.  And things changed.  Drastically.

This week marks the first time that I was able to persuade Princess to join us in our routine torture sessions before the sun shows his friendly, fat face.  (I’m still moderately intrigued as to why she suddenly agreed to join us but in order to protect my sanity, I’m not going to dwell on that too long.)

Selling the concept of training in the morning was far easier than the execution thereof.  It took a lot of persuasion to finally get her to wake up and get dressed in some kind of sports attire.  Think ‘trying to fit and elephant in a mini cooper’.  Not that I’m insinuating she’s fat because she definitely is not.  She’s not even overweight.  Besides wouldn’t I be an awful parent if I called my daughter an elephant?  Even though she laughs like Heffalump.  I’m getting side-tracked… Continue reading

As long as it comes with a diet soda

sweat1

Don’t confuse determination with desperation

The road to fitness is a lonely one.  A jungle where muscles grows scarcely and with great difficulty among the roots of perseverance and determination.  Where waterfalls of fat are draped over cliffs of protein stacks, scattered along the river of sweat.  It’s a narrow, winding path with many obstacles.  It leads you over and under and around dumbbells, barbells, treadmills, water fountains, headphones, playlists, guy nipples, yoga pants, public showers, nakedness and douche bags. It’s a treacherous path, not meant for the fainthearted or the weak. Or normal. Continue reading

Mother knows best

I took up jogging because I didn’t think waking up at the crack of dawn was sad enough. I felt inadequate being just one of a selected few, who voluntarily go to the gym every weekday before the birds start chirping.  I simply wanted more.  Running in the afternoon completed the look I was going for: Desperate and pathetic.

The truth is, I entered a race.  This implied training was necessary.  No, I didn’t lose a bet. And no, it wasn’t a dare. Why then? Because I am a raving lunatic.  Who else would choose to run for 10 km non-stop in the middle of nowhere?

One thing you must know about me is that I never do anything half-arsed.  I will endevour to finish everything I start with so much energy and vigor, that my sweat and determination would be considered a prohibited substance at the Olympic Games. (I don’t bottle my determination but my sweat is for sale on Bid or Buy.)

Since I’ve taken up running, I’ve become aware of a whole new brand of aches and pains. It happens when you start using muscles you never knew existed.  Especially the small ones supporting your joints.  Normal people would take notice the moment when their bodies start screaming agony! as a warning that they’re hurting.  I’m not normal. I’m committed to the point of being obsessive.   It makes me a very understanding person.  Just ask my kids.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I win anything, I’m not great.  I just like to commit 158% to everything I do.  It used to be 200% but I’m starting to subtract my age from my expectation.  During said race I injured my ankle.  I still managed to finish though.  Some people call it mind-over-matter, I call it old-age-and-stubbornness.  The slight injury turned into “it’s a little sensitive” a day after I completed the race.

The following week I was preparing for the next race.  I think there must be some indirect relationship between fitness and common sense. During one of these sessions, where I became even more stupid, the “it’s a little sensitive” turned into mild discomfort.  I still didn’t quit.  I’m a man.  And by now, a big idiot.  When the mild discomfort turned into me not being able to walk, I thought it a good idea to take a break.

I actually enjoy running.  I was sulking for having to sit out for three weeks.  I finally decided I’ve had enough.  F*ck the ankle.  The Wife suggested I take another week off, just to be sure as she self-diagnosed me with a sprained ligament.  I ignored her advise and had a great time on the road. I ran like the wind.  Or at least, a very strong fart.

All went well, until I stopped.  My little discomfort was back.  With a vengeance.

An hour later it felt like someone was stabbing my foot with a flaming, hot rod.  Two hours passed and I found myself alone in the bathroom.  I think I cried. Pain makes one very delirious.  I was trying to hide the fact that I destroyed something beneath my knee.  Seven hours later I still couldn’t get down the flight of stairs and the Wife was starting to look for me. I knew my game was up.  It was time for confession.

The doctor and x-ray guy diagnosed the source of my agonizing pain as a serious inflamed tendon, causing extreme pressure on the nerve, causing me to consider amputation as a wonderful solution.  And the cure?  An injection with a needle that would make a horse shit his pants and no running for another two weeks.  As per Wife’s suggestion.

Wife never uttered the dreaded words: “I told you so.”  But with females words are unnecessary.  It’s all captured in a look. And the look on her face said: “Mother knows best.”

PS – I haven’t taken up jogging again.  It’s been two months.  And now Winter is coming at a speed The Flash would never reach.  I still manage to drag my body out of bed every morning and that makes me miserable enough for the time being.  

FabFridayTeamNew1

Hey Captain Douche, excuse me, I’m flexing here.

With all the baffoons roaming the Serengeti of a gym, I’m surprised I’m still grazing there at all…

wp-1457594883447.jpg

In my time on this blog I’ve had moments of ranting about naked guys and nipple showings.  It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the wonderful readers of this blog are starting to think that I’m training at some R-rated fitness facility, as some of the instructors also shadow as ladies of the night… Continue reading

Crossfit anyone?

images (2)

It’s my new thing. I’m semi-obsessed with it. I’m not sure why. It’s extremely tough, opens the floodgates of every pore in your body and increase your cursing vocabulary.  Halfway through a workout you look like a wet, wild, panting, deranged lunatic who will probably kill anyone who dares to strike up a conversation.  Only to end up feeling like a million bucks afterwards.  The “thing” is called crossfit and I consider myself to be a cross-fit wannabe as I still don’t have a body that looks good in a vest nor do I consider myself an expert of this training regime.  But there are three things I know, (1) I feel stronger (2) I feel fitter and (3) I love it.

I’ve been battling to throw off a couple of pounds that’s stubbornly sticking to the mid section like a sloth to a tree.  I’ve weighed my options and concluded that weight training alone might not be sufficient anymore.  I’ve reached an age where my metabolism has given up on life.  It’s apparent that I have to include some form of eating plan and cardio in my daily routine, if only to combat the consumption of wine.

I consider myself to be a mild sufferer from Adult ADHD.  It’s one of those things that makes me appealing.  I also have grey hair, stand 6″4′ in my shoes and have an amazing sense of humour due to the fact that I’ve seen my own reflection. I’m not just claiming to have a mental condition because I hate doing arbitrary stuff (if arbitrary stuff is defined as anything) around the house, I actually get bored very quickly.  Therefore I am in desperate need of diversity, action, excitement, change and chaos in my life.  Coincidentally it’s the same reasons for loving my teenage kids and also why I cannot imagine myself spending 40 minutes on a treadmill.

Before I discovered Crossfit, I did consider a few other cardio related options like:

  • Running – but who really wants to do it, if you own a car?
  • Cycling – but who really wants to wear pants that reveals whether I’m Jewish or not? (sorry Chris!)
  • Aerobics – but what man really looks good in neon coloured ski-pants and/or headbands?
  • Kickboxing – but who really wants to do air-karate to music?
  • Spinning – but who really wants to sit in a cramped space and smell body-odour of 10 other random strangers?

After finding enough excuses, it was settled, I will never have a six-pack. Then I found a crossfit workout (the lingo is WOD for those who are uninformed) in some men’s health magazine.  It might have been the actual Men’s Health Magazine.  I was intrigued, captivated.  If only for the female model squatting in the spread. I understand that crossfit is nothing new and it’s probably been around much longer than that thing that used to be a sandwich in my drawer.  But seriously, this is what caught my eye:

  • A lot of the WOD’s are based on twenty minute workouts.
  • You don’t need to be a specific level of fitness to start.
  • You can do it on your own.
  • You can challenge yourself constantly by setting your own goals.
  • If you’re really good you can compete internationally.
  • You may eventually end up with a body that’s a better version of the one you have now.
  • All the benchmark WOD’s are named after girls, like Angie, Cindy, Fran, Isabel and Nancy.  (Why do these sound like the names of drag queens?)

I’ve been doing Crossfit for a month now and as stated before, I’m hooked. Line and sinker.  I have to admit that I hate myself whilst I’m doing it and I regret any normal activity because of it (including but not limited too walking, sitting, typing and talking), but I still can’t stop.  It might be because I’m stubborn.  Or stupid.  Or both.  I reckon my recent visit to the department of Home Affairs are partly to blame, as I’ve never fully recovered from the trauma of that experience.  (I will proceed in blaming that event for every bad decision I make for the rest of my life.)

There is one thing about the whole crossfit subculture that boggles my mind a bit and that would be the fetish of naming WOD’s after girls.  As always, I’ve opted to give you my own reasons for this weirdness:

  • It only takes a man twenty minutes with the right girl to know he’s whipped.
  • Most men have little or no energy after fighting with a girl for twenty minutes.
  • Anything that makes you sweat for twenty minutes and leaves you satisfied with a smile on your face deserves to have woman’s name.
  • Only a woman have the power of leaving a man utterly exhausted after a focused twenty minute interaction of any kind.
No, it's ME against ME

No, it’s ME against ME

So how about it…Crossfit anyone?

Laugh with me #6

Be careful, you might hurt yours…Too late… *insert shouch*

In the spirit of my second week doing Cross-fit training, I share this poor guy’s predicament, if only for how his body must feel after that fall. It’s also another reason why the Wife never gets on our treadmill.

treadmill fail

Maybe he should consider paying a little more for his fitness equipment.  It clearly illustrate why we shouldn’t believe everything we see on those extended television adds.  You know the ones where they make ordinary people seem totally incapable of using everyday utensils like a butter knife.