S eriously, I've been working out.
My summer will be spent at the pool with brilliant cancer researchers, incredible artists, rocket scientists and all-around badasses who look like supermodels. (They are impossible to hate, since they also turned out to be hilarious and cool. BASTARDS!)
And right now, I feel like a peach-colored orca whale covered in cell-u-lee-tees. (Itsounds cuter in Argentinean Spanish.)
So instead of trying to pull my skivvies up over my little belly roll, I'm gonna pull my short-shorts on and jump, kick and roll around on the living room floor. And some of you will know this is a battle I engage in on a bimonthly basis.
For New Year's I was gonna try running again. For Lent, I was gonna try a yoga. Instead, I went to the bar. And while I don't mind a little more junk in the trunk, the beer belly isn't quite as adorable peeking out the top of bikini bottoms.
About a month ago I downloaded a weight-loss app. The basic premise: you enter in everything you eat and everything you do and it calculates it all up and tells you at the end of the day -- when you're drunk and watching "X-Files" -- that hey, you're still fat.
After three weeks of drinking sickening Mexican lagers and eating carrot sticks for dinner, I'd lost 0.8 pounds.
"Slow weight loss that prays together stays together," I told myself for the next three weeks.
And then it was May and I got mad. "The secret is exercise," said the pretty cancer researcher.
"Yeah," said the rocket scientist. "Muscle is the way to go."
"Shhhh, you are hurting my ears," said the Fritz.
But I knew they were right.
To avoid over-thinking it and the subsequent panic, I simply began playing "Workout Roulette."
Basically, I go online and find the first workout that lasts the exact amount of time I have to invest in jiggling around the living room. The first night, I found a 20-minute yoga video, busted out the short-shorts and rolled the mat onto the ground.
"Lay down with your feet slightly apart and your hands facing the ceiling," said the yogi in a thick Indian accent. "Now breathe in and out, in and out."
For the next twenty minutes, the yogi instructed me to lie down and then stand up and then lie down some more and then stand up again. He told me to smile -- but don't smile too much ... just a little.
"Does your left leg now feel longer than the right?" he asked after a stretch.
"Yes, yogi, it does!" I shouted at the computer.
"Okay, let's stretch the other one out now."
"Now let's lie down and breathe deeply and have three minutes of deep relaxation."
"I love you yogi!"
It was the best damn workout ever.
The next night, I had less time to spend, so I found a shorter video. This yogi made me lie down and swing my legs around in circles for ten straight minutes, telling me over and over again that this exercise will make fat people skinny and skinny people fat.
While I steadily kicked things off the chairs and tables around the tiny living room, I tried to think of a skinny person I could trick into doing this exercise.
Suddenly, it was over.
Workout Roulette may be the stinkin' sweetest regimen ever. And I will only stop thinking that when I land on a Jillian Michaels' 30-Day Shred.