Does This Mean My Legs Need To Start Watching The Lifetime Network?

Me: "Doc, I think I need to go on Prozac."

Physician: "Do you feel that you are suffering from depression?"

Me: "Well, yes. Only, it is not for me. It is for my legs. They are depressed."

Hmmm.


Do I sound like I have lost my mind? Maybe. But gimme a minute...


I have been AGONIZING over the condition of my legs as of late. I see dramatic, POSITIVE change everywhere. My back. My arms. My abs. But my legs? Not so much. They are puffy. They are bruised. They are damn near squishy to the touch. They are ouchy! They are achy!

I have been throwing everything at them. Thirty to forty minutes of fasted cardio, seven days a week. Running, walking, the treadmill, the Elliptical, the Stair Mill, hills, bleachers, spin classes...you name it and I have put my poor wheels through it within the past four weeks. I have done twenty minutes and up to an hour of cardio nightly AFTER training to tighten up my gams. Sprints, Step classes, plyo training, Tabata, and on and on. So, after being grumpy and feeling extremely fed up and pissed off with this portion of my anatomy, I grab my dear Figure Mentor/Friend, Frances Smith, and pull her into a dressing room of the gym locker room where I unabashedly strip half naked (like I give a damn, at this point!) and show her the objects of my extreme vexation.


"Oh! They are just stressed out."


Stressed out? Like, they need to go on a cruise or watch a Matthew McConaughey chick flick?

Or are we taking serious depression here? Do they need bi-weekly visits on a long couch with a professional otherwise they will resort to watching Oprah and eating Pillsbury Frosting right out of the container with a spoon?

I am really ticked off at them, here. They are stressed? Really?!? Maybe I am stressed. I pay the bills so that they can have those jeans they like. I mean, they do not have to sleep in Victoria's Secret Pink terry cloth snuggly warm-ups or have higher thread count sheets to curl up under. Lord only knows the boyfriend would just as soon sleep naked under a potato sack. Ungrateful. Do they have any clue as to what have I gone through the last 1o weeks?!? So I pile on the cardio and cut out carbohydrates a little in the home stretch and they get stressed out?

Boo freakin' hoo.

Try setting a goal at nearly 31 (I lied. 21. lol) to hop on a stage under floodlights and prance around in heels and a bejeweled piece of cloth the size of a Kleenex. Get your crap together, legs. No one has time for you to be stressed. I surely don't. I have less than six weeks. How about I let you watch a movie on Lifetime and you can have a good ol' cry and read Cosmo after? I will let you chat all night with your "girlfrans" and y'all can meet up at a local coffee shop to be melancholy and dramatic. Wear a beret. Depressed people in coffee shops do that. Mmmm kay?

Thanks.

"Everyday brings a choice: to practice stress or to practice peace."
~ Joan Borysenko

And I Bet You Drive A White Van, Too

So...


I did a little experiment at the gym last Tuesday. (This is what I do with my free time now. After all, I am at the gym about 15 hours a week now and I have no life. I am hungry. I am bitchy. This is my entertainment.)

Let me set the scene for you.


Pretty crowded. About 6pm. Usual crowd. Just got in a damn fine back workout and was feeling pretty cocky. Starting to look like a figure competitor but I do not yet "dress" like one. Ya know...sports bra and panties disguised as shorts? Nope. Not me. I wear Nike jogging pants and t-shirts. I have worked in health clubs waaaaaaaay too long to put my crotch that close to something Mr. Sweaty Old Gorilla Man was sitting on 15 minutes before while he coughed and hacked and scratched his Sweaty Old Gorilla Man parts.

No, thank you.

So, after my workout, I hop on an elliptical for about 30-40 minutes of cardio. I plug in my headphones and prepare to zone out when I notice, out of the corner of my vision, a man in his mid-forties with those knee-high socks with the top three stripes (two red, one blue), come swagger over slyly to get on the elliptical behind me.

Hmmm.


Where is my damn whistle?

Alright. Maybe I am being paranoid. Since this is a gym that has the cardio deck divided into two full sections, I make a pretense of filling my shaker bottle and going to the opposite side to the treadmills to finish my workout and to watch Fox News to fulfill my duties as an upstanding American. He follows me.

I guess creepy gym dudes also watch Fox News.

Figures, with Bill O'Reilly and all.

Now, I have some fun with him.

On to the Stair Climbers! Yeah, buddy. Hope you enjoy this shit.

Now, the Stair Climbers have no equipment behind them so this was the real test of the ardor of my suitor. Would my creepy knight slay the dragon that was that dreadful piece of equipment just to be near me for another 14 minutes of sweaty staring? The answer is no.

He climbed up next to me for about 3 minutes of labored breathing and wheezing and I thought he got the best of me. In a moment of sheer horror, one thought flitted across my mind:

"I AM GOING TO HAVE TO GIVE THIS SCUZZY JACKASS CPR!"

...and then the slimeball managed to hit the STOP button and grabbed his towel as he slithered off the machine in a pile of socks and 1980's gym shorts.

I think he learned a lesson. Next time, he might follow around someone a little less feisty or hopefully, his "following" days are over for a little while.

Ten bucks says he went and got in his white van.

"The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think."