I got a phone call earlier this week from one of the personal trainers at my gym. I say 'my gym' very loosely as I've not been there in close to eight months now. So I went in for a personal consultation and to pay the butcher's bill for my holiday excess.
I feel like claiming that I'm typing this post using my teeth and a cocktail straw, but the pain's not all that bad. Besides, it seems that I have the reputation of an inability to cope with personal suffering to overcome; at least with certain individuals. So I'm sucking it up and really can't complain all that much about the lactic acidosis making itself known in my thighs.
The bad news: I can now officially never claim to be six feet tall. The measuring tape on the trainer's wall put the lie to that. I'm 5'-11". (*sigh*) And I insisted that buddy do one o' them fancy body fat content tests on me. One electrode on my foot, the other on my hand, and I'm round about 23%. A little too much 'round' for this fella. A typical healthy male should sit in the range of 8-14%. So, at 193 lb, I'm going to make a more regular routine of physical exercise.
And, in case you're wondering, I'm posting all this here since I know I'll feel somewhat more obligated to perform given a small amount of public disclosure. If it's no longer just my dirty little secret, I'd best do something about it.
So, at the very least, I intend to be a fitter, trimmer 180 lb by the time the Great Canadian Death Race rolls around this year in August. I'm going to put a team together and run in one of the five legs. Boo-Yah!!
But just one more night of ecxess... Amy and I are off this evening with a couple friends to the Mayfield Dinner Theatre. Cashing in a present from my dad last year. So we'll enjoy "Only in Canada, Eh?" and a wonderful buffet dinner. Better wear my 'emergency pants', since it'll be my last hurrah...