As I take a deep breath, my heart slows to a normal pace. The Transformation has begun. My body is returning to its BC (Before Children) days. Well, it better be, anyway.
I walk the three blocks home from my martial arts studio. My triceps burn from punching the bag, my quads quiver from endless roundhouse kicks. And most importantly, my abs look like God meant them to--like the statue of David. Well, I'm pretty sure that's what they look like. I'll check them out when I get home.
I throw my boxing gloves on the couch. Now I know how Mike Tyson feels after a workout, spent, but worthy. I've been sticking to this exercise regiment for, oh . . . I don't know how long. A while.
I peel off my skin-tight lycra pants and t-shirt. I position myself in front of the full-length mirror. The heck with Victoria Secret models. I'm envisioning the abs of real atheletes, those who pose for Muscle and Fitness magazine. This is the realm I've entered now that I've been working out for . . . a while.
My chest expands as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I look in the mirror. WOW! Not only is my reflection unexpected, I think it might be physically impossible!
I look at my calendar. I have been working out for, let's see. One, two, three. Three and one-half weeks. I go faithfully twice a week, well, at least once a week. Forty-five minutes of non-stop kicking, punching, jumping rope, jogging, and medicine ball crunches. Twenty-five crunches per sessions. If I only go once a week, (though I do try to attend twice a week, honestly), that would be 25 x 3.5 = 87.5. I have accomplished almost 100 crunches in the past month and this is the results. My stomach is emulating the medicine ball, not benefitting from it!
Along with the workouts, I've been doing this "envisioning" crap for two years. Isn't that what "The Secret" is about? Envision hard enough and it will be yours. Megan Fox's abdominals have flitted through my dreams, as well as Mia Hamm's and Lindsay Vonn's. My 11-year old son assures me they all have decent abs.
I rip open my underwear drawer and grab my Spanx (modern-day girdle). I lie on my bed to wrestle myself into it. My Spanx gives me coverage from rib cage to mid-thigh. Nothing bulges out of this thing, other than the pain reflected in my eyes because I can't breathe. I've got to come up with a new ab attack. I grab pen and paper to brainstorm, chips and salsa to sooth the disappointment and settle onto the sofa to draft my new game plan!
