So it has been several months since I’ve posted anything. I did complete Tough Mudder back in May in case you were wondering. It was one of the most challenging experiences I have ever encountered. My body ached and my aches ached and ached again. I could barely grip my celebratory beer of Dos Equis at the finish line.  Participating in Tough Mudder was very much like a video game. There were stations to power up with bananas and gratuitous amounts of agua. Then back up the hill, ehem mountain, again we would go. The event turned into a mathematical situation where the TM people did not know how many bananas were required for X amount of participants. Hence, there were no more bananas at the next resting station. Luckily, I stuffed my sports bra with Powerbar gummies for a time like this which were now soggy and stickier than ever. When scaling passed the ski lifts I came across an untouched banana screaming my name. I unabashedly picked it up and peeled the glorious fruit. It was sun-kissed and three of us shared it’s potassiumnastic goodness as if it were the last forbidden fruit on earth. I had strangers urging me on and even one giant man told he was proud of me. I told him I was proud of him too as we ran through the sticky-icky muddy path.  

It looked pretty outside today, so I thought I would try and go for a run. I’m recovering from a cold that keeps on lingering, but I was thinking it should be fine. I ran a hilly mile-my legs felt fine- but my lungs were on fire from the cold winds. Now I’m worried what the weather is going to be like in May on Mt. Snow. I’m guessing like weather we’re having right now in Boston. I’m having major self-doubts today.

The treadmill is a boring concept. So boring in fact that most people love to talk about what they think about on the treadmill to distract themselves from actually using it. Me? I have various staged arguments with my shoelaces, my lumps (iphone autocorrect for lungs, which I couldn’t deny either) and the skinny bitch next to me who insists on sprinting next to me, which in turn makes me crank it up and what was once a simple argument has morphed into an unspoken screaming match between brains being sloshed around in our sweaty skulls.

You know what I’m talking about.

It’s that little voice saying “give up or I think you have to pee or you’re going to die because your kneecap is falling off and you’re just going to embarrass yourself if you fly off this thing.” Then you get this image of yourself with a tread-mark from your chin to your forehead. To follow, you’re not sure or I should say I’m not sure if the little voice is for me or the skinny bitch in the matchy-matchy pink adidas outfit and perfect pony-tail bouncing synchronously.

I digress.

Try the ergometer, also known as the rowing machine. It works out three more muscles than the treadmill. You’re moving back and forth so quickly you get lightheaded and have semi-hallucinations that you’re actually on a mutha-truckin boat with sharks gaining on your fat-ass.