Oh Boucher, I'd Have Been Your Destiny

(December 03, 2006)

Doctor Death can kiss my ass in hell. Today's workout? Literally almost threw up on him. I was about five seconds from blowing leftover pakora all over him when he let me stop doing deep lunges. "That was great! You're very flexible and have pretty decent strength." Just then I didn't have enough strength nor flexibility to flip him the double-bird like I wanted.

How can I properly express just how out of shape I am. Let's see. Analogies usually work for me, so here's one...no, I take it back, I have no analogy. My body is freaking out, so it took all the blood my brain usually uses to come up with clever wordplay. Let's just use an old one that I think I lifted from, appropriately enough, Roseanne Barr: I am so far from Fit that the light from Fit will take a thousand years to reach me.

Doctor Death is very enouraging but as I keep explaining to his bulging mass of lean muscle, "you and everyone in this gym belong to a whole different species." Seriously. Either I don't belong to their species or I don't belong to their era. They are "Go Go Go!" and I am Rococo. I should be lounging naked on a cloud, unashamed of my body, with Aeneas and Venus who also look like they ate their way out of a house made of pasta. I would have been Boucher's ideal woman. I just missed it by 300 years.

All this perfect logic is lost on Doctor Death. At one rest stop during Doctor Death's Routine Of NeverEnding Pain, as I sat panting on the bench I did manage a feeble "fuck you."

I don't know if he heard me.

Doctor Death says that tomorrow I will wake up incredibly sore and feel like I can't get out of bed, but that I MUST go and do 20 minutes on the elliptical or else I'll be twice as sore the day after tomorrow.

THAT time he definitely heard me.