As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not the most active person. When I’m back in Houston, I will usually go to Rice stadium and run the three mile track and run the stadium steps. But, I’m in Houston about as much as Santa Clause, so I’ll get a quarter of a calf muscle that will hold on for dear life as I trek up and down the hills atop Howard University for nine months out of the year.
Not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I used to be quite the fat ass.
Heavy D, are you the father?
I used to be likened to:
170 pounds in the 7th grade. Short as hell. Lucky for me I was quick witted with a sharp tongue and a lot of venom to spew (thanks Mom and Dad). If not, I might have had even more problems back in middle school.
A few years and fewer pounds, and much needed additional inches in height later:
Now that the extra 800 pounds are gone, I want to tone everything up. Y’know, preserve the sexy. Despite suggestions, I’m really not looking to gain an absurb amount of weight. It will just give me flashbacks of scarfing down a jumbo-sized Ultimate Cheeseburger combo wito two fried tacos for dessert. I want to gain just a little bit of muscle; enough to lift up my student loan debt. On second thought, that would make me Hercules. But you know what I’m getting at.
I had weight training in the Spring, but modest improvements at best were made. Didn’t help that the teacher didn’t like me. I mean, ok wearing a Beyonce t-shirt to class wasn’t the best idea, but when I went to class, I always worked out. I sweated and everything! Hater.
I’ve debated on whether or not I should just work hard and when it’s time to reap the benefits, I could get muscle transplants. But who knows how long that will be. Plus, after looking at some of my older relatives, I’m motivated to live a healthier lifestyle.
Well, thanks to 24 Hour Fitness, part of the plan is deferred for the moment. I stroll on in, looking at the well lit room full of sweaty ass people. People on treadmills. People on Stairmasters. People on machines that umm do things to make you stronger (hey, I said the coach didn’t like me, so I don’t know the terminology). People using dumbbell. Then there’s me, the dumbbell who thought they would actually value my coupon.
The assistant manager shows me around the place. You know, gets me all hyped up, and then tells me know once we sit back down that this coupon isn’t valid. He says if I pay $50 I could get a student pass. Yeah, I don’t have $50 to give you. And, I’m going to New York in a few weeks and there’s no 24 Hour Fitness there, so what’s the point in me singing Jodeci outside the bus station to raise enough funds to pay for this temporary membership if I’m not going to get my money’s worth?
Then he asked me why haven’t I joined a gym in D.C. I’m poor. He asks how many times do I eat a day while in D.C. I tell him maybe once or twice. “Why is that? That’s really bad.” Well I’m poor. It be’s that way sometimes, pimpin. He said I should eat 5-6 small meals a day. Who has that kind of time and that much money? Maybe I can buy a box of Ritz crackers (the saddity kind) and just munch on those all day. Will that count?
He was kind enough to let me work out that day. Felt good to work out. Too bad that feeling won’t return for a couple of weeks until I’m in New York with a paying gig and a dorm with a gym accessible with an NYU ID.
I can see why people in Houston decide to just eat an Asian salad from McDonalds and call the walk from the car to the house (Houston is a natural sauna) their workout.
In the meantime, I’ll just keep running like the po po’s are chasing me at the track and lift my niece up and down like she’s a free weight. Or maybe one of you readers can loan me your old Tae Bo tapes.