January 14
I have about 3 other pics, almost exactly like this one, the difference being the thoughtfully placed modesty tail. I thought I'd spare you a big old dog cooter shot. Though, come to think of it, adding DOG PORN to my site might increase my traffic. I AM JUST A SLUT WITH A DOG. And I love having DOG SEX. In fact, you might say that I LOVE TO FUCK ANIMALS. Not only do I LOVE TO FUCK ANIMALS, but I also EAT HUMAN FLESH. YES, I DO!
I have advice for you all. If there was a time in your life you maintained any type of exercise program, any sort of "I work out X times a week and I watch what I eat and never take elevators and drink 80 ounces of water a day!" thing and you are planning on slacking off on this for more than a couple months, I am speaking to you, in particular. Heed my advice:
DON'T DO IT.
Keep going! Slow down to once a week, if you must. But DO NOT STOP. You will be so, so sorry.
Friday, I passed through the doors of Bally's for the first time since September 16, 2000. As you may recall, I was not, in fact, going to the gym all that frequently before my 2 week attempt at cramming for fitness before the AIDSride (which was pretty much a dismal failure. Trying to whip sad and flaccid ex-muscle turned to flab back into shape in 14 days [or 10 hours at the gym, total] is about as likely as..uh...as.. uh...insert your own unlikely thing here). So, yes. Friday, I went back. I had been gone so long, they asked me for my drivers license, to make sure I was really me. I sauntered up to the crosstrainer, stepped on, estimated my weight (oh, man..) and off I went.
Allow me to reiterate:
NEVER STOP GOING TO THE GYM. NEVER. Never, never never. Either never stop or never start. Choose wisely.
For a person with some aerobic fitness, it takes a minute or two to get to a target heart rate. For fat, flaccid Dana, it took approximately 20 seconds for me to be gasping and panting and going all 170 beats a minute. The machine kept warning me: "SLOW DOWN TO MAINTAIN TARGET HEART RATE!" Did I listen? No! Punishment for my months (year) of sloth and chinese food and beer and cake and whatever else I shoveled in. Death by exploding heart, I reasoned, would bring me one step closer to my ultimate goal, and should not be scoffed at as an outcome. The fit and beautiful (*see note) would all huddle around my limp body, thrown backwards 3 feet into the stationary bikes, catching my lycra pants and dangling me like a marionette. "She had that coming. Look at those stretch marks! LOOK! Look at that! NO muscle tone!" they'd sniff. "I never once saw her circuit training, and you can really tell."
(*Note: For what it's worth, I do not think I have ever seen a person I'd consider to be beautiful at the gym. There are many people with lovely bodies, but pukey, nasty, pinched faces. Again, every time I say something like that I am reminded of a conversation I had once with a friend, Jeremy, about Jamie Lee Curtis, wherein I informed him that I believed that she was probably one of the uglier famous women out there. "But her face, it's..it's nasty!" and he replied: "You don't fuck the face, Dana.." which always takes the wind out of my sails, just a little, when I go around rationalizing my life away..)
Okay, so yeah. Crosstrainer. The first 5 minutes were horrible. My calves were all "Hello? Hello? What the fuck? Quit it!" They relayed their dissatisfaction to my feet which cramped and went numb. Toes? Nope. Numb. 45 minutes, people. When my time was up, I stood there, still clinging to the...things..I don't know what you'd call them, the things that makes the thing a crosstrainer, I guess. They move. They have metal patches that read your pulse. The things. I stood there, holding onto the things, all achy and sweaty, but in there, triumph. You know what I mean. When you feel like you've done something important and cool for yourself? That was exactly it. I was so happy to be there again, it almost negated all of the sorrow of catching my reflection in the full length mirror as I walked back toward the locker room. (after, by the by, another 20 minutes on the bike. Yes, I still hate bike riding..) Almost.
It was the almost which drove me back Saturday and Sunday, aching and sore and all determined to take my own destiny and body and health into my own hands again. And so I am. Ow.
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out of all those kinds of people
you've got a face with a view
im just an animal looking for a home
share the same space for a minute or two
and you love me till my heart stops
love me till i'm dead
eyes that light up
eyes look through you