Hooping (and my small penis)

What's the first thing I did when I got more energy and started taking pounds off? I got a mistress, of course. Isn't that what everyone does?

We met through our mutual friend, Robyn. They've known each other for a while. When we were introduced, I instantly wanted to make her mine.

"Maven, meet Hooping. Hooping, this is The Maven."

Beautiful, isn't she? I was really into her from the very first time, and I knew I had to make her mine. I see her every day, and I think about her when we're apart. My relationship with her is growing into something of an obsession, but it's not a bad thing. We get along fine when she's not bringing me to the verge of tears.

See, I've tried all different types of exercise. Their repetitive, mundane nature bores me and I end up ditching them within a few weeks or months. Not so with hooping: I love the feel of the hoop in my hands, the almost meditative nature of getting into the flow. I can work with just about any music, and make every single workout unique. It's a dance that just happens to work the body and firm it up - that's the bonus, not the goal. There are no repetitions, no yelling instructors, no measuring tapes, no scales, no competition. It's just me, my hoop, the music, and the energy in whatever room I'm in with whoever's in it.

(Yes, I realize I sound like a hippy. No, I do not need a hemp dress and a bushel of organic potatoes. Now quit snickering and keep reading.)

Robyn started teaching a beginner's course in our area, so I joined up. She also introduced the group of us to Sirenhoops.com 's hoop jams every second Friday at the Dovercourt Community Centre in Ottawa, so I've started going to that, too. I even joined a couple of online hooping communities: HoopCity.ca and Hooping.org. My friend Liliane even bought me my hoop - the beautiful, sparkly one featured above - through Sirenhoops, making me an official hooper. Everything is going as it should.

Except that I really fucking suck.

Oops. Sorry. I'm not supposed to say that. I'm supposed to stay positive. The hooping community is by far the most accepting, encouraging, caring community I've seen outside of self-help groups (and believe me, I've been in enough of those). They don't judge, they offer guidance, they pat me on the back and tell me that it will come eventually, they celebrate when I accomplish something. But when you're the only person in your hooping class who can't get the hoop to stay up around the waist, it's a bit of an kill joy. And as I see everyone progressing further and further along the path of hooping greatness, I get a little discouraged at trailing along behind, still trying to get the basics down.

The Maven has always employed an ego-boosting tactic: she has always done things she is reasonably sure she will totally rock at. Postpartum breastfeeding support: I am awesome. Writing: Very awesome. Being popular: Killer awesome. Being a mom: I have to make sure I don't drown my children in the awesomesauce that flows forth from my maternal instinct. By all accounts, I make it look like the "A" in my DNA stands for awesome.

And then there's the hooping thing.

I knew from the first time Robyn brought her hoops to a party that I didn't have any natural talent for it. While nearly everyone else was effortlessly whipping the circular piece of plastic around their waists and exclaiming "Wow! This is fun!" I was quick to drop (or "crash" as the community often calls it) the hoop repeatedly. But I knew I could enjoy it once I got it, and I was sure it wouldn't take that long. Nothing takes me that long. I'm The Maven, for crying out loud.

This, of course, has turned into a lot of painfully frustrating workouts where I wonder if I'll ever be able to figure out such a basic hooping maneuver. But I keep trying because I love doing it - or the idea of doing it - and because it's good for my ego to try hard at things. I might even grow a bit of self-esteem - imagine that!

Good things can come out of working through one's frustration. Robyn suggested that I take breaks when I feel overwhelmed at trying to get the hoop going and "play" with my hoop doing off-the-body tricks. Well, as it turns out, I'm not too shabby at it.  I can make the hoop do things I don't even realize I'm making it do. And, while I still have a lot of work and practice ahead of me to get good at it, the hand tricks I'm learning come easily, and I now have my heart set on a pair of smaller hoops called "twins" to advance even further.

At last night's hoop jam, a friend of mine complimented me on my off-the-body work. I thanked her, but explained the situation to her like this:

Imagine that I'm a dude. If it helps, you can call this male me "The Marvin".

The Marvin has a small penis. My small penis is waist hooping.

I am rather embarrassed by my small penis. I keep trying to make it bigger - Swedish penis pumps and imported herbs and the like - but it's still, like, 2.4 inches long and prevents me from wanting to wear a speedo at the beach. This makes The Marvin feel inadequate.

One day, The Marvin realized he could just get a sports car. As long as I'm driving my Ferrari around town, I feel better about myself. It's my shiny, manly penis extension.

And, as you probably could have guessed, my penis extension is off-the-body hooping.

So right now I drive around hand hoop to forget the fact that I feel inadequate in other areas. The only problem is that a whole heck of a lot of hand hooping - especially with a heavy beginner's hoop like mine - really freaking hurts. I have bruises on the backs of each hand the size of a toonie; Proof that my ego needs to a take a backseat more often. I have to take a deep breath, suck it up, stop worrying about what everyone else might be thinking, and waist hoop like a madwoman until it actually stays around my body for more than three seconds at a time.

I can get this. And when I do, I'm going to be a really happy Maven who will swing her proverbial package around proudly. But until then, I do look sexy in my sports car.

Super Mom Vs. The Horrible Hobble

(Image credit: Wikipedia.org)

In the last set of comments (yes, I do read them - every single one - and they totally feed my writer's ego make my day), Deb asked if I would write a post about my recent injury. So, since I'm nice like that, allow me to flex my non-injured wordsmith muscles and tell the tale.

First, I have a confession to make: I've been working out. But if you're not my Facebook friend, you likely wouldn't know it (and if you are my Facebook friend, I apologize for spamming your live feed with my annoying workout messages). For the most part, I've been doing it all secret-like in my office or bedroom, kind of like a teenager with a case of the late night porn itch.

(Come to think of it, it's a lot like porn: skinny, scantily-clad women on the screen working up a sweat, telling you to keep going, twisting themselves into... Well, anyway. I think I've made my point.)

I've been trying not to be too rah-rah about the whole exercise thing. I tend to get overzealous and fall head over heels for something new, then lose interest, much like the guy in high school who never called you back after you got to third base.... not that teenage me would have any experience with that (the jerk). When I make a small change in life I should just do it, do it regularly, and appreciate the results. This is what I've done this time, and it's been amazing. And It feels different. I love how strong I'm getting, how much energy I have, how I tore my calf muscle while kicking myself in the ass...

Oh, yes: the injury! I had almost forgot. I was in the middle of this wonderful exercise called a "butt kick." Basically, you have to run in place while kicking so high you whack yourself in the buttocks with your heels. It's not the most attractive thing in the world, but it does get the heart pumping. I'm not quite getting foot to ass yet, but nearly. In fact, I was trying ever so hard to reach my sizeable bum with my $200 running shoes, using their uberpadding to the fullest as I pushed myself off the floor and - POP! - there went the party.

Did you know calf muscles could making a popping sound? I sure as hell didn't. In fact, it wasn't the pain that made me cease and desist, it was the fact that my leg made the same sound as a champagne bottle on New Year's Eve. The pain only came after that awful sound in the form of a rather unpleasant cramp.

I'll skip the part where I cried in agony in the shower and hastily sent off a message to a friend of mine who knows a thing or two about working out. We'll ignore my visions of having to have my leg's innards surgically reattached, or the horror running through my mind as I pictured watching helplessly from the couch as my once-tidy house goes to shit while I recover from said surgical procedure. I won't even mention my fear of gaining back the weight I've undoubtedly lost (I don't weigh myself at all these days so as to not get hung up on numbers) and watching all the muscle mass I've worked so hard for turn into flab I simply don't need more of.

But I'm not dramatic or anything. And definitely not anxious or someone who skips ahead. Me and the Dalai Lama, staying in the present like the centered beings we are.

The good news: It doesn't look to be serious. I know this because it's been getting a little better every day. As per my friend's suggestion, I immediatley applied the R.I.C.E. technique: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation (I hope I got that right. If not, my botched memory created a whole new recovery system that worked anyway and maybe I have a future as a trainer).

Okay, I maybe lied a little bit. I only took care of myself after donning my Super Mom cape for a few hours. After my shower, I went to the grocery store, drove my sister and Gutsy somewhere, and took Spawnling to the park to play with his little friend Dalek. It was all going swimmingly - minus the part where painkillers did absolutely nothing for pain and I gasped in agony every time my calf muscle was stretched even the slightest amount - until Spawnling and his buddy decided to try to kill each other at the top of a very high play structure. They never fight -- well, hardly ever. They picked the one day I was crippled and Dalek's fairly pregnant mom was the only other adult at the park. They attacked each other ten feet off the ground, surrounded by four long slides and two openings fit for bone-crunching falls.

Fan-freaking-tastic. What on earth was I supposed to do?

After yelling at them to stop failed miserably, I rushed up to the top as quickly as I could, narrowly avoiding my now tattered Super Mom cape getting tangled up in the monkey bars. It was only once the boys were on the ground sobbing and tending their wounds with retracted claws that I felt an intense surge of major ouch. When I got home, I told the kids that mommy was done for the day. There would be no fetching of favours, no snack acquisitions. They were on their own until their dad got home from work.

Gutsy pushed the ottoman up to the armchair, put a pillow on it and carefully lifted my leg. He then grabbed an ice pack and a cold drink and handed them to me. "Are you alright, mommy? Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked kindly, and stroked my cheek. Later, he, Intrepid and Geekster took orders, formed a sandwich assembly line, and delivered a late but very yummy dinner. The even did the dishes.

See? The family can survive without me -- for at least 12 hours! I was mostly back on my feet by the following morning, getting things done one limp at a time. I am nowhere near ready to start kicking my own ass again, but I did get a great upper body and abs workout done yesterday. Soon, I'll try walking a block or two, and then hopefully a little ways longer. By next week I hope to jog, and then I'll tentatively (and a little fearfully) resume my regular exercise routine that involves a fair bit of things that can apparently make Maven's muscle go "Pop." Yikes.

Injury sucks. However, it's reminded me just how grateful I am to be this healthy and mobile; all the more reason to keep working hard, getting stronger and healthier.

Oh, and hotter. Yes, I'm definitely getting hotter and really buff. If you know me in real life and I haven't asked you to feel my bicep yet, consider yourself lucky. I've been making everyone touch it. I expect a flood of restraining orders to start coming in soon.

Look, just fondle my arm, ok? Don't make me hobble after you.

My Late Night Pharmacy 'Aha!' Moment

Yesterday was not only Geekster's birthday, but the day I got a wicked migraine that wouldn't go away. It started just after lunch and carried through until this morning. It was annoying and intrusive upon my day, much like the summer those Jehovah's Witnesses kept coming by with pamphlets during nap time.

Mr. Migraine lingered through my mandatory last-minute dash to the grocery store, the nearly catastrophic layered cake experiment, my thirty minute workout, and homemade pizza-making. He stuck around and poked at the left side of my head when we sang happy birthday to my darling husband, when we cut the cake, when I cleared the dishes. He throbbed at my temple during Obama's State of the Union address, and throbbed even more as I snorted with laughter at the Republican's Response ("Best healthcare system in the world"? Can Republicans read? Ever see the multitude of studies done on US health care cost and overall life expectancy?)

Finally, around 10:30, I just couldn't take it anymore. I had tried Advil twice during the day and it had done absolutely nothing to stop the pounding bass drum in my forehead. I peeled myself off the couch and made my way to the 24hr pharmacy, hoping something a wee bit stronger would kick the it for good.

I asked to see the pharmacist, and started describing the pain. I told him what I had taken, and that it hadn't worked like it usually does. 'Is there something stronger I could take?' I asked, rubbing my head.

It was then I realized where I was: an urban pharmacy in the middle of the night, asking about stronger painkillers. I wondered if I looked like those pill-popping housewives Oprah has on every other month. Maybe if I twitched a little and got a desperate look in my eye, I could really freak some people out...

At thirty-three, I still like to rebel a little.

Disappointingly, I don't behave enough like a junkie to get any kind of uncomfortable look from a pharmacist. He asked me to describe the pain, so I did. When I told him it hurts more when I'm up and doing things, he asked me if I had recently checked my blood pressure.

Well, no, obviously. Because denial is pretty awesome and I liked it there. Why burst my bubble? He pointed me to the blood pressure machine. I took it three times, and the last and lowest reading I got was 141/85.

Not good.

For those readers who are not familiar with blood pressure, that was a really shitty score. It's not a 'run, sobbing, to your nearest heart clinic' score, or a 'time to find a pig with a strong ticker and hope you have the same blood type' score, but it's not exactly great, either. It means my blood pressure is too high, and bad things could eventually happen.

Now, Denial Maven would like to point out the following:

- It had been a busy day
- I was stressed out
- I was in pain
- It was late at night, and I was tired
- Pharmacy blood pressure equipment can be flaky

Thank you, Denial Maven. Now kindly shut up, and let's talk to Realistic Maven. She doesn't come out to play very often, but we still need to include her in the group, ok?

Denial Maven says:

- I am obese
- I am stressed far too often, and stress kills
- This is a wake-up call

It's funny, because I've sort of come full-circle: First, I hated my body because I'm fat. Then, I accepted it for what it is. Next, I began to love it as much as I love other aspects of myself (which is a lot, in case you hadn't noticed). Now, I love myself enough to want to get healthier. I can accept my body, but I can't accept my blood pressure, because that can- and likely will - cause major damage to the body I now love.

The simple fact is that being this overweight is not good for my health. On top of that, the amount of stress I've been under isn't helping, either. it's time for some big lifestyle changes: more exercise, better food, more relaxation techniques, more time for play. I owe it to myself, my kids, my spouse, and of course my countless minions who rely on me to brighten their days with my blog posts. The blood pressure readings I took last night worried me. I've known for a while that I'm heading down a scary path if I don't make some significant changes.

It's time.

Wow. The determination in that last sentence was so badass! I'm going to try it again, but with more emphasis on the last word:

It's time.

I just got all tingly. I might have just turned myself on.

For his birthday - the sixteenth we've celebrated as a couple - my husband got a homemade cake, homemade pizza, and a pretty decent gift he'd been eying for a while. On his next birthday, I hope he has a wife who is a lot healthier. He loves me, and I know wants me to stick around for a while. Not only do I put out, but I make great pizza crust.

Being The Fat Friend

I wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response to my last post. I would thank each and every one of you individually, but I'm too lazy. It's summer, it's raining, I have my period and I'd rather write something new with what little energy I have on seven hours of very, very broken sleep. I'm sure you understand.

I will say that Gutsy and I are starting to get along significantly better the last few days. I haven't finished reading the book yet, but I have come up with two techniques that really seem to help: keeping my cool even when he's not, and defusing the situation by making him laugh. This creativity is another shining example of what makes me so great.

My awesomeness: it's visible nearly everywhere you look.

Notice I said 'nearly'. That's my lead-in to today's topic (writers like lead-ins).

I've come to the conclusion that I may very well always be The Fat Friend, or some variation thereof. It seems that, no matter what group I'm with, I'm the heaviest of the bunch. I forget that fact sometimes because I like myself so much that it's easy for me to overlook the lack of skinny in my jeans. I only tend to really notice it when pictures of me emerge that are not cropped at the neck. These sometimes make me sad for a few hours. If I were a queen, I would simply order a ban of all such pictures and demand that those in existence be burned in the town square. Then I would do some random flogging, but only because I like the word 'flog' and also enjoy abusing power.

But I digress.

I'm not a self-hater. I'm really not. There are aspects of me I don't enjoy - like my genetics - but I actually think I'm pretty great overall. About the only time I start to question myself is when I'm around a group of women who are significantly smaller than I am and go on and on about how fat they are (and they're not fat - not even close - which is so infuriating). It's apparent that, if they were my size, they would carve the fat off their bodies with a kitchen knife before going out in public. That type of poor body image is contagious, and so I attempt to fill my friend basket at least 75% full of women who care about their health but not necessarily the number on their scales (these friends tend to have the least amount of weight problems - imagine that!) Those women don't see my weight and don't really care too much about theirs; they take notice of how their pants are fitting, try to eat reasonably healthy and get a bit of exercise, but that's where it ends. That's where I want to be: healthy, but not obsessive. I admire that trait and I think I'm nearly there.

Being The Fat Friend is also hard when you happen to surround yourself with very beautiful people, like I do. I don't purposely invite them into my circle, but rather they flock to me like moths to a flame; a chubby little flame that bounces light off their elegant wings.

I know my friends like me because I'm cool and funny and talented and positive and terribly smart. But I also wonder if I'm more approachable because I'm not a threat to anyone's ego. I mean, who's going to look better in a summer dress? There's so little competition. Heck, I don't even own a summer dress. I haven't had one since I was about sixteen. That's over half a lifetime ago.

It's not like I'm feeling sorry for myself or anything. I have been gifted with many great things in my life; addictions and cellulite balance me out nicely. I can't be too perfect or no one would hang out with me, right? That's why I have to keep this jogging thing to a moderate level and not go all crazy with the weight loss. If I hit Skinnyville I've gone too far, and my Facebook event invites will drop dramatically. By maintaining a certain level of pudge on my frame I pretty much ensure my continued success as a popular girl.

As with everything else in life, fat is what you make of it. If I can take enough off that my heart will want to keep beating for another 50 years, yet not take enough off that I get snubbed at the park for having great legs and great hair (there's a fine line between admiration and jealousy, ladies), that would be perfect.

But in all seriousness, I'm likely never going to be a very small person. I just don't care enough about what other people think and I like food too much not to eat it, or to barf it up afterwards. If I hover in the early teens in dress sizes that will be perfectly acceptable. As it is, I've lost a full size in my first few weeks of running, and it feels damn good. I'm still The Fat Friend, but I may put in for a name change so I can be known as the Slightly Less Obese Friend. With any luck I'll be The Borderline Healthy Weight Friend in a few months. I don't care to be much more than that, as I can still enjoy pastry and whole fat lattes without worrying about gaining 8 pounds in a sitting.

And, if I ever have a Fat Friend of my very own, I'm going to take her out shopping for a stunning summer dress so she can feel like she's rockin' the park instead of hiding her blindingly white legs in those capris. Maybe I'll get one of my own little dresses then, too.

A Startling Realization

Yesterday, just a few hours before my 18 year celebration of clean and sober living, I was thinking about the accomplishments in my life and feeling pretty good about them. Besides being a semi-excellent mother and happily mediocre wife, I've also achieved other great glories over the years, like rekindling my romance with running.

Another goal conquered? I quit smoking 13 years ago. Did I ever mention I used to be among the smoking? Except I started for a very original reason: I was trying to fit in and be cool.

And another great feat? I stopped eating meat (I made that one rhyme on purpose - my intelligence and wit know no bounds!) It's been about nine months and I'm feeling great. Also, I think pigs like me a little more. When I'm at the farm they only urinate in front of me now. No more defecation; they save it for the nasty bacon-loving omnivores.

Yep. It's pretty wonderful being The Maven. Just look at all I've done! It's amazing! Why, if you add it all up, I'm... I'm...

"Hi, my name is The Maven. I'm a sober, drug-free, smoke-free, vegetarian jogger!"

Oh, shit.

I am officially the most boring person on the planet.

I'm going to have to do something to spice myself up a little. Make myself cooler and more full of greatness instead of only tofu. Because, frankly, I'm not doing a lot to make people comfortable around me. What are we going to talk about? So many topics are things I can no longer relate to: drunken barbecues at grow-ops, for example.

Not to mention my house has been insanely clean lately. Perhaps "insane" is the wrong word, because we've not yet entered OCD country. It's just tidy, and I clean a good portion of it every day to maintain it. I believe that's known as 'upkeep' and is what most people do, but I only recently joined their ranks after leaving the 'only clean up when it starts to smell like a corpse or if you break a tooth tripping on something' club.

Also, I'm officially in the process of writing my childhood memoir, which I've been putting off forever because, well, my childhood was rather sucktastic in places.

Most places.

And on the days when I trudge up something rather yucky and expose it on a page that will hopefully be published for all to see, I may be rather untalkative.

So, this year, if all goes as planned, I will be a socially awkward, tidy, sober, drug-free, ex-smoking, meatless, health-conscious published author.

...Hear that? It's the sound of my social life deflating.



On the plus side, I managed to find a coffee mug that nicely matches my phone. Awesome, right? It ups my street cred a little, right?

... Right?

I'm desperately grasping at straws, here.

Love Means Killing Yourself Jogging

Guys. Wow. You know, I joke about being popular and loved and everything, but 20 comments about my fat day? I can't possibly thank each and every one of you individually. You're too much. You're awesome. You're incredible.

You may start construction on my statue any time. And while you're working on it, think you could shape my ass to be a wee bit more muscular? If we're going to immortalize me for all time, let's do it in style, okay?

Honestly, I'm feeling the love and I am extremely grateful. My mom's post made me cry (stupid moms and their powerful words of wisdom) as did a couple of others. Some others made me sad because people who are obviously beautiful don't always have the best body image. Why? Why don't you think you're totally hot? You are. Embrace it! When I'm your size I'm going to be checking myself out in every reflective surface. I mean, damn!

At any rate, that day was what I needed to get on track. This week I hiked, I worked in the yard, I did some weights and I avoided buying any junk food. I did sneak in a few chips at a BBQ (mandatory) and some chocolate-covered fruit (a little compromise I came up with when I was in the mood for my once-upon-a-time daily intake of chocolate) but overall I've done well without complete deprivation. I like.

Today I didn't have to do The Denim Dance, which is basically me hopping into my jeans and then wiggling back and forth while sucking in my gut and forcing the button closed. Once that's done the zipper is a piece of cake, but at what cost? The buttons get very loose, and the muffin top needs to be hidden under a shirt with no waist (thank goodness for current fashion). Yet, this morning I slipped into my favourite pair of jeans with no problems whatsoever and just about humped the bedside table in delight.

What? You don't get the urge to hump things? Must be my dominating personality.

I keep checking myself out in the mirror, too. It's ridiculous. I'm noticing the shrinking double chin and, of course, the red hair. My life, at the moment, is all about the red hair. When I find my waist the red hair will step back to play a supporting role.

On Friday, Geekster and I attended a couple study at the University of Ottawa. Why? Because we want to help the next generation of lovebirds. Because we want to increase awareness of how relationships work. Because we want to help scientists figure out how successful couples co-exist.

And mostly because they paid $40 and it was a night out. We ran out the door when we were finished and had a nice dinner. Thank you, science!

The spouse and I spent about two hours answering questionnaires, playing cooperative games and trying to argue about important topics on camera. The result? We realized we're really bad at arguing as our communication skills are quite decent, and we've ironed out most of our differences over the last sixteen years anyway. Also, according to our answers on the questionnaires, we really love each other. Like, a lot.

A few of my friends are in new relationships and are in the cutesy-shmootesy stage. They get and receive dozens of emails, phone calls and texts a day saying how much Lovebug loves Teddybear. They get flowers "just because" and a lot of date nights where they get to find their new-ish partner's second favourite colour and, oh my god, it's the same as their own! It must be a match made in heaven!

After spending half my life with someone, I already know his second favourite colour, or I could at least take a very good guess. I don't find out something new about him every day, and most of our conversations over MSN involve asking if I can put the trash out or if he can pick up some bread on the way home from work. It's the reality of a long term relationship involving the hatching and care of gremlins and the paying of mortgages; the cuteness is replaced by "please pass the cereal box when you're done" or "did you really need to buy that?"

But the upside, of course, is that we've practically grown up together and thus are thicker than thieves. Even if we were terribly different at first, we've now grown into this festering mass of co-dependency. Other than the fact that I have hair and a few extra pounds on me, we're pretty much the exact same person. We like the same shows, we like doing a lot of the same things, we nod in approval to each other's musical tastes. We never argue about what to eat for dinner, whether we should brew decaf or regular coffee, and our parenting styles are practically interchangeable, meaning the kids are going to save at least half of what they could spend on therapy bills; The same issue twice over is way cheaper than two separate traumas.

Yep. When the university team has a look at our answers and recorded interview, they're going to see exactly what the future has in store for them if they continue to swap spit with the same person for many years. Also, they'll hopefully check out a couple of seasons of How I Met Your Mother, which I recommended a few times by looking in the camera. When arguing with your soulmate in the name of science just isn't happening, why not play a quick game of "Remember when they said this? Hilarious! Oh, sorry Camera. Have you watched that show? You really should."

I'm still a sucker for a good love story, however, and have been getting my fix visiting the websites of him and her. They're adorable. Almost sickeningly. In fact, I puke a little in my mouth every time I read of another fantastic/magical/glorious/fairy-dusted weekend (I try to eat something grape-flavoured first. Grape is delish even coming back up). They seem like very normal people, unlike yours truly. I probably scare them being all groupie like, but that's the chance you take when you put your life up on the internets for the world to see. You might end up getting an old married broad sighing over your sweet little nothings to each other.

Disgusting. That's what it is. Absolutely disgusting!

(I hope there's more tomorrow.)

Also, I have to mention that I just ran 1.91 miles. And by "ran" I mean jogged, and by "jogged" I mean about 2/3 of that, while taking walking breaks to gasp for air with my fat-laden, asthmatic lungs.

I'm going to call it "interval training", which sounds significantly better than what I just wrote.

Being a hot bitch is really hard work, you know.