Inspired to perspire
I’m inspired to perspire and I have you to thank for it.
Well, I have you to thank and the gordis, who go about life seemingly happy and unfazed by the junk in their trunk, although I secretly envy their “no me importa, I’m still wearing a bikini” attitude.
But, as I was saying, I’m inspired by you; by your triceps and your Let’s Move campaign. I recently watched you jump rope on TV. I said to myself, I can do that. But then I tried and I couldn’t. Muy mal.
I reached the tipping point, literally, while getting ready for a social function. I was ready to go, all dolled up, when I realized I had forgotten to clean my high heels. I couldn’t crouch down or lift my leg, because my gown was a bit tight, so I tried bending over instead. Bad idea. I could barely reach the tip of my shoes without bending my knees. I had to sit down in my viejo’s closet chair to get the job done.
I felt self-conscious. But upon arriving to the event I had an out-of-body experience as I found myself in a swarm of middle-aged, flabulous bodies in way-too-revealing, what-were-you-thinking, Forever 21 gowns. Ay dios mío. I started thinking, That can be me next year if I don’t do something rápido.
So, I started researching workout regimes to target specific problem areas. That’s how I learned about body parts I didn’t even know existed. Now that I know there’s a name for each fat deposit imaginable, I can’t pretend I don’t see them in my body. Or anyone else’s for that matter.
Turns out, the flab nomenclature is extensive and evolving. There’s the “duchess” or “buffalo hump” (fat in the upper back) and of course the “wings” (bulges hanging over bra straps).
Then there’s the ubiquitous “muffin top” and the, uh, pronounced muffin top or “mother’s apron.” Other food-inspired terms include the “doughnut,” which refers to the excess fat around the navel, and the “banana fold” (the fat below the buttocks). These are not to be confused with “chubb” (fat around the kneecap), or the commonly known “cankles” (fat between the calf and the ankle). I’m sure you get the picture, and it’s not pretty.
My apologies: I didn’t call just to give you a visual lesson on slang for fat deposits in my anatomy. I am really calling to tell you I signed up for the President’s Challenge, an effort of your hubby’s Council on Fitness, Sports and Nutrition. The nifty, online tool is helping me track my activity level while I find an appropriate fat-busting workout regime. Yesterday, for example, I earned 406 points for two hours of household tasks and 290 points for one hour of home repairs – it took me a whole hour to change a spring in my curling iron; it counts as a home repair, qué no?
I hope soon to earn points for other activities from the President’s Challenge list, like hang gliding, baton twirling, and unicycling.
Who knows, maybe if I get my rope-jumping act together, I’ll be in good enough shape to ride my unicycle to work and put my unemployed banana fold, chubb and cankles to work.
Bueno, cuídese – and keep up the good work, Mrs. Obama.