“Some of you may know this song,” Libby Kiser, fitness instructor with killer abs to show, switched her music on. "Everybody come on dance and sing, everybody get up and do your thang!" Oh no she didn’t! She reeled me back to seventh grade dance party USA, and made me feel ancient as the twenty (is the new ten) somethings stood their like bobble heads unfamiliar to Madonna way back when she was mod punk. Shuh! Libby, the only fitness beast that raps, sings, and orchestrates the best work outs suited to motivate us to push ourselves farther, "What's going on? Are we a family? Are we here to give our best? Mamacitas say hell yeh."
"Hell yeh," double cross jab kick, I beamed from ear to ear.
"Love is free so why do people hate?" She was always positive without preaching, "now chicas give me a hell yeh! now poppies give me a hell yeh..."
I snuck into her body pump class knowing that her class had sold out. What where they going to do? Escort me off the premises? Please. I was one of three women that worked out without a step platform. A little awkward, but I didn’t give a sh*t. Libby was ripped from here to Timbuktu, "Momma said knock you out, what? I can't hear you team? What? What? What?" She continued her singing as I continued my sweating. I had three pound weights in each hand, and I wasn’t embarrassed to be boasting a light weight for I wanted to be toned in the arms department. I lifted with lengthy repetition, "Come on ya'll smile, when you work out, be positive in your new year. Be positive in life. Remember you’re working out for you, so if you’re not doing the full extension the only person your cheating is yourself." She was politely positive and reinforced goodness.
Next morning, I was a crippled mess. My muscles excruciatingly tight and filled with pain. You fucking kidding me right now? I cursed the lunges, side lunges, squats, lateral pieces of turd, tricep, bicep curls. This was the first day, which meant tomorrow would be thrice the pain. “Momma hold me?” Hunter’s request to pick him up as I dawdled down the steps, “Sorry honey momma can’t do that, she’s hurt.” I was more then hurt, I was framed. From the bedroom to the kitchen, the stairs was my only obstacle to convenience. Holy sh*t, it took me a few minutes to clear two flights.
Here's my theory, in order to lose my ten pound goal - I had to switch it up. My muscles needed a jolt. A shakedown. My body slummed the 30 minute eliptical, 30 minute interval sprint / uphill jog, and the 30 minute interval jump rope, turbo kick box class, body combat class, or spinning. Each day alternated with a different one hour cardio, and I maintained, but it was time to kick this fat to the curb. If the contestants from "The Biggest Loser" can do it, then what was my deal? Of course, the candidates are equipped with personal trainers and work out for hours upon days, it's a clear indication that it's possible.
Project 110My goal weight in a duration of a healthy two months. My game plan includes mixing up my work outs so my muscle will be blind to my body blow. Like boxing, I’m coming at you from all angles, “jab, double jab, left hook, right hook, uppercut, jab, straight.” In the eating department, I will not slope off not even on an off day for two months. Small portions, label control, lots of water, vegetables and fruit. Grab your partner to the left and do-si-do. I went cold turkey on two and a half packs of cigarettes a day, thus my will power is golden.
The Champion, my spine just tingled, a Valentines Day present from my sweet husband two years ago is a key contributor to my healthy weight loss. It’s been collecting dust and usually sees the light of day on a quarterly. As of late, I start the day off with an organic blend of kale, frozen blueberries, celery, carrots, beets, and a couple pears. It sounds grosser, than it tastes. This drink wheels my digestive into overdrive and doesn’t know what to do with this healthy chock, but it gives me this energy that could be mistaken for red bull.
On top of an organic fiend I’m also a label whore, a calorie counter: the calories from fat, the saturated fat, and the carbohydrate. My husband thinks the whole organic movement is smut, "the whole organic movement is a racket, seriously $7.99 for strawberries, fucking bullshit." I'll takek pesticide free strawberry over a chemically saturated berry any day of the week. You are what you eat! Which makes me a neurotic organic label hog.
“never eat more than you can lift” – miss piggy
On the broad, yet sensitive, topic of carbohydrates, current studies are emerging that low carbohydrate diets are taxing on the liver. It’the case of protein that’s gone too far. Omitting carbohydrates from my lifestyle is like cutting off oxygen to my blood stream. Like a junkie, I’ve learned to maintain. I love my carbohydrates! You can’t tell a true Filipino to cut out the white rice from their diet. My mom would starve herself silly. I'm not so much a white rice monger, but a warm loaf of walnut bread from Tartine or a baguette from Acme Bread can send me to the moon and back. I would hunt down a wildebeest for a warm plate of home made pappardelle with a simple boar ragu. Home made pizza with a simple garlic, mascarpone, seasonal mushroom with fresh thyme. It's simply a felony to omit.
Meanwhile the social elite that gorge on pasta, loaves of bread, and slabs of butter, and can simply wedge yourself into a size 3/4 well, that's just wrong.
Which brings me to my first rule to carbohydrates when attempting to shed some fat: carbohydrates must only be incorporated with breakfast, snack, or lunch. Carbohydrates are forbidden after sunset. Carbohydrates is a source of energy and I need my energy most during my excessive morning or lunch workouts. Disagree, but you don’t share my body type and my sad gene cesspool. I’m not top heavy or bottom heavy. I’ve been cursed with the middle heavy body type. Let's just say, I’m not so much heavy as I’m not tight in the mid section.
The first and last time a six pack was ever evident was when I was fifteen. Jerome Bousefield, first boyfriend and first heart break affiacionado, “wow, you actually have a six pack, that’s insane!” Before that, I would’ve never noticed the little tight flat muscles that I referred to as my belly. I was a street skater and shred the twelve foot half pipe with one foot vert. I was a sk8er. One of the reasons I moved to San Francisco was my obsession with the street skating scene with Mark Gonzales, Tommy Guerrero. They were god and I was seventeen. Set aside the teen years as it doesn’t count! My torque and horsepower metabolism decelerated in my late twenties, due to a flat tire.
By the golden words of Madam Mireille Guiliano the author of
French Women Don't Get Fat, food should never be associated with diet, but to be enjoyed and praised. I'm hoping that I can approach two months highly sophisticated minute portions of pats of butter, chocolate, baguette, and triple cream cheese. I'm hoping that Enjoyment of food and exercise is living life. Goshdarnit. Here's to ten pounds and the next two months!
This is Shellie tossing her midriff to the wind back to you Bob at the studio!
