I would honk. But I can’t.

It seems that the thought of me working out is the funniest thing since sliced bread. I’m not exactly sure why. But my immediate family seems to take great pleasure in making fun of my efforts. Nevertheless, I persevere.

I decided to start going to the gym. You know, still working on my goal of bringing sexy back. Why he left, I still don’t know.

I went to the weight bench. Gotta build up them pecs. Chicks dig pecs. Or so I’m told. I just want it so my torso doesn’t look like it’s frowning all the time. I put about 180 pounds on the bar. That should do it. You’re supposed to be able to bench your body weight, right?

I went to lift the bar. It didn’t budge. I relaxed. Then tried again. This time, I got it up and over the hooks. Barely. Then I lowered it slowly. You gotta do these things nice and slow. Build up them muscle fibers.

When the weight got to my chest, I pushed up. The bar didn’t move. I continued pushing. The bar continued not moving. “Not good,” I thought. Out loud. Through tears. As luck would have it, there was a guy who had just finished lifting nearby. Through the panting and sweating and crying and heaving, I muttered, “Hey, buddy. Can you spot me real quick?” He looked around the gym for a second. Then back at me. “There you are.”

“Thanks,” I said, the weight crushing my sternum. I continued pushing. I think the bar was laughing by this point. Or I was straining so hard I was hallucinating. It was hard to tell.

After about 10 minutes of not being able to breathe, due to the pushing and crushing weight on my chest, I really started to feel the burn. “Oh yeah. Isometrics, baby,” I said proudly. Isometrics are good for toning. I think. It was somewhere around here that I blacked out.

When I came to, I was in my car. Driving home. I’m not sure exactly how I got changed back into my street clothes. Or how I was showered. But I was feeling refreshed. Even if my arms had the tensile strength of boiled spaghetti.

Luckily, my drive home is a straight shot. No turns required. At least, not on the path I took. There was some guy yelling something about not driving through his lawn. And something about a fence and a small puppy. I think. My ears were still ringing from all the straining.

I pulled into the driveway and managed to turn the car off. Somehow. But now I’m stuck. I don’t have the strength to pull the door handle. If any of my neighbors are home, could you please come let me out of my car?

Another flawlessly executed plan

People think living inside a cupcakery is the dream life. The guy at the bank the other day said to me, “Every time you come in, I think how awesome it must be. There are always cupcakes sitting around for you to eat. Then I think, that would be an awesome problem to have.” And this is true. But people only see the glitz and glamor of the business. Sure, there’s the constant flow of delicious consumables. The travel. The celebrity. But they don’t see the dark underbelly of the world in which I live.

That dark underbelly is actually the pasty white underside of my belly. And the owner of said shop who keeps shrinking the waistband of all my pants. (That’s the only explanation for why new pants would suddenly not fit anymore, right?)

I’ve tried sit ups and push ups. I’ve tried switching my beverage to something less caloric. I’m doing everything I can. Short of stop eating so many cupcakes. Hey, vacation is coming up and we’re headed to the beach. I’ve got to bring sexy back.

The problem is that I do not own a scale, or any way, short of wrapping a tape measure around my waist, to set and measure progress towards my goal. Which is being the sexy.

Problem solved. I will stop when I look like this:

Seems reasonable, no?

When the dishes are done the night before and you don’t have to get any kids ready and out the door for school, there is a lot of extra time in the morning. I decided to take advantage of this. I’ll start running.

Let me preface this with the fact that I haven’t run in years. At least, not when I wasn’t running from something. Like a dog. Or my problems. But when I used to run, I was fairly fast. And I had decent stamina. But, since I have no recent standard set, I don’t know how far or long I’ll be able to run. I figured I would run until I was tired, then call it a day. (Hey, it worked for the sit ups/push ups thing.) So I suited up and started running.

Things were going pretty well. I was able to keep a decent pace. And I wasn’t getting tired. I kept going. I got to the end of the block and turned left. Still feeling pretty good. I made it to the edge of the neighborhood. It’s a brisk morning. But it’s totally worth it. Why stop now?

I made it what I figure is a block or two out of the neighborhood. Then it hit me. The fatigue started setting in. This must be what marathon runners refer to as “hitting the wall.” I figured, no pain, no gain. I pushed myself a little further. I’m now expecting huge gains. Just sayin’.

What runners neglect to tell you is probably the single most important aspect of this whole exercise. When you run until you are tired, you then have to find someway to make it back to your starting point. This is no easy feat. My legs are burning. My breathing labored. I can barely stand, let alone run all the way back home. I did what any rational person would do. I found a house with a comfy looking bench on their porch and curled up. Just to rest for a bit.

After a brief, unintentional nap, I felt refreshed. Sort of. And headed home. My legs throbbing and cursing with every step. (The cursing may have been my neighbor who owns said bench. I couldn’t tell. They sound very similar to my legs.) But I finally made it. Panting and sweating.

Needless to say, I was late for work this morning. What a load of BS, though. Now I see why treadmills are so popular. Running is dumb.

I guess I didn’t think this through very well

This morning, I thought to myself, “You know what, Dwayne? You eat a lot of cupcakes. Like, way more than you should. You should probably be doing sit ups or something.”

I stood there for a moment and thought, “Why are you thinking these things out loud?” To which I replied, “I’m talking to the guy in that window thing.” It’s called a mirror. Idiot.

Anyway, so I laid down on the floor of the bathroom and started doing sit ups. I went until I couldn’t do anymore. So after about three, I was done. (I’m joking. It was more than three. It was like 5.) (Ok. It was three.) It was at this point I realized, I had completely worn out my abdominal muscles. And I was stuck on the bathroom floor.

Being the highly intelligent person that I am (talking to the guy in the window thing, aside), I quickly found a way to rectify the situation. I’ll simply roll over and use my arms to get up. Duh.

I rolled over and pushed myself up. At this point, I thought, “You know. I could probably stand to do some push ups, too.” So I started doing push ups until I couldn’t do any more.

After about seven, ok, it was five. Fine. Three. Anyway, my arms were completely spent. Like, totally done.

So. Yeah. I’m stuck here. On the bathroom floor. And I can’t sit up. And I can’t push myself up. Because, you know, I wanted to be all healthy and stuff. But it’s not working. Because I’m stuck. On the floor. In the bathroom.

If someone could please send some help. Like, quick. The guy in the window thing is worthless. He just keeps laughing at me.