A few weeks ago, I borrowed the Ab
Slider from Jeyun, our Director of Content. Yup, the same Ab Slider that is
constantly advertised on late-night infomercials. For a good five days, it just
sat next to my desk and constantly taunted me, “Hey Gil, try me out. You can
do it. You know you want to. Everybody’s doing it.” Finally, I could not
deal with the incessant nagging by this little blue contraption.
I grabbed it and began sliding
back and forth along the carpeted floor. Not too difficult, I thought. I’ll
just do fifteen of these every day. So after I finished fifteen, I felt inspired
to do a second set of fifteen. Not too shabby. Within a few weeks, I’ll have
Brad Pitt abs. And I became so inspired by my newly discovered love of fitness
that I decided to jog. If I could do the Ab Slide with ease, I could certainly
sprint two miles.
I ran a good third of a mile at a
decent pace. However, I realized that I could not keep up this pace. Suddenly, I
was getting passed by other joggers. First, it was regular runners. I could deal
with that. Second, it was fit women. Okay, a blow to my manhood, but I could
deal with that, too. Third, I was getting passed by fat Italian guys. Of course,
they were being chased by the mob so they had to run fast…or at least that’s
what I told myself. Eventually, I was getting passed by old ladies, little kids,
men with walkers, etc. After I ventured about two miles from home, I decided to
take the bus back. How pathetic is that?
Next day-okay, next five days-my
shins were hurting, my abs were sore, and I felt pathetic. Have I, at the ripe
old age of 27, started aging? First, there is denial. Denial starts during your
college days. You begin to realize that you no longer fit into your 31-inch Levi’s.
You tell yourself that clothes shrink over time. Then you shop for clothes and
realize that the Gap and Banana Republic have altered their measurements.
Finally, you cave in and buy the 32-inch khakis. As you wear them, you notice
that the pants are a tighter fit than originally anticipated. But that’s okay
because you’ll lose some weight, you kid yourself. That was my sophomore year
in college.
During college, you fight to stay
in your 32-inch pants. Sometimes, you resort to buying the 32-inch pants with an
elastic band so that there will be a “margin for error.” As I was walking
down the podium on my graduation day, I remember thinking, “Boy, these pants
sure are tight.”
Forward five years. I am now
fighting to stay within my 33-inch pants fruitlessly. There are days when I can
put on pants and you cannot see the belt buckle because some of my stomach has
decided to go outdoors. When I first step on any scale, I ask the owner if the
scale is correct. Surely I cannot be that heavy. Maybe I’m wearing really
thick clothes today. Well, I just had a big lunch…three days ago.
So I begin my journey to get back
into my 32-inch pants. I figure that I will eventually get there as soon as the
achy muscles or sore legs heal so that I can begin my monster exercise regimen.
But I’m sure that there is some lingering soreness left. I’ll just start
tomorrow.
