Monday, September 8, 2008

Bingo Wings and Pneumatic Boobs

We interrupt our normal blog program to bring you this special, self-serving announcement:

I'm going to do 100 push ups.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Probably not next week.

But within six weeks, I intend to be able to do 100 push ups in a row, with good form.

I'm guessing there aren't two among you who have any idea of my fearful relationship with push ups.

I've never done one. Not once. Not full body.

[SUMMARY: I am wuss, hear me roar.]

And, given my experience of the last few days, never any of any kind with any thought of form... just the idea of getting off the ground and back, alignment be damned.§

So one of my imaginary friends and I were discussing the state of our nearly middle-aged boobs and she directed me to the 100 Push Up Training Program.

Which led to some tentative talk of *doing* the 100 Push Up Training Program.

Which led to the stunning revelation that I work best under the twin umbrellas of humiliation and concrete goals.#

[SUMMARY: Thus, the public display of bravado.]

So Thursday or Friday, I tried to do my first push up since the sixth grade.% And found, indeed, doing a full-body push up with good form simply ain't happening for the time being. But those kneesy ones, those I can do.

Nine with impeccable form, to be exact.††

Your job, and you have no choice but to accept, because it's my blog, is to provide the proper accountability for me so I don't just give up and go watch America's Next Top Model instead of doing push ups.

[SUMMARY: Your job is easier than mine.]

So Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,‡‡ I will be proceeding through the 100 Push Ups program. I will give brief reports the following days to chart my progress and give you a chance to mock me if I slack off.

Imaginary Friend will be there to commiserate... and humiliate. I'm to kick her in the ass if she needs it, she's to make fun of me and my girly weakness if I need it.

ETA: OK, she mentioned me, so she's not *that* ashamed to be seen doing push ups with me. Juno, Enchantress Extraordinaire and Master of the Seventeen Push Ups is my partner in crime. She has a perfume database too, so... y'know... kindred spirits.

Even if she doesn't have a girl crush on Sarah Palin like I do.^

AND reading her post reminded me that y'all should probably check out the pantyhose for men site. There are some inspiring pictures (Kim, meet Fred) and some prose to make you wonder if they can keep a straight face.

You guys just have to check it out.

[SUMMARY: Such excitement!]

Oh, stop. You're going to be jealous when I do my 100 push ups and my nipples are saluting the Blue Angels insted of the garden slugs.

And my bingo wings shall flap no more forever...

Dzongkha - L'Artisan Perfumeur

Marin says: Holy shit. Rum.

Before the alcohol fizzled away, it was all rum, that slightly sickly flat-Coke smell of fermented sugarcane. Then it faded to... rum and coke, a slightly spicier, darker version of the last bookmark.

Then it was a Cuba Libre: rum and coke with a lime. Then it got really spicy: pepper, nutmeg, pepper, bay leaf, pepper. With just a hint of rum and lime in the background.

Later yet, it turned to little but pepper up close, with a little something sweet and nearly floral from an impressionistic distance. Mmmmm.

Then on the next tick, it turned into a soft wood with pepper and a hint of something warm -- amber? Incense resin? But light enough that even I, with my head shop hang-ups, like it. The aggregate is a lot like rich cedar and distant flowers.

Just before bed, I inhaled deeply and got a very nice woody floral. Nothing remarkable about the scent but that it was still there so many hours later.

L'Artisan says: A bewildering fragrance$ inspired by the Kingdom of Bhutan, by the odors of stones and incense from the temples, of leather, spicy chai tea and opulent nature. An invitation to spirituality and an inside journey.

This enveloping fragrance speaks to both women and men and tells a unique story on each skin: that of Dzongkha, the language of Bhutan.§§

Hans says: Dude, that smells like booze. Rum. [letting the alcohol wisp away]. It's totally rum. It smells like my house in college.


Wow. That's totally changed. Now it's spicy. It's totally spicy and... peppery.¶¶

FOOTNOTE (crossed): Good form is key. Without good form, I can do push ups in the style of a banked trout until the cows come home.

FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I find them terribly intimidating. I don't know why I picked push ups as my Waterloo, but it's been that way forever. And I've never even done one. Hey... maybe it's fear of the unknown more than fear of being bested by something a ten-year-old can do with aplomb.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): See: banked trout

FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm not outing her without her consent. She may not want to be publicly associated with such a wimp. Besides, rumour has it she can do 17 push ups. 17 *real* push ups. And she's taller than me (yes, that makes a difference -- look up your basic physics and get back to me). I have tricep envy.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): 'Cause, you know, without humiliation, I'm released to my own recognizance and my own recognizance would just as soon be drinking Grey Goose. And without concrete goals, I'm perfectly comfortable dismissing the humiliation in the name of ambiguity ("How was I supposed to know what you wanted of me, O my shame? Did you not fail to provide me with a number and a schedule?")

%FOOTNOTE (percented): And I don't remember the President's Council on Physical Fitness being all that worried about form.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And a tenth in classic banked-trout style.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Starting tonight.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Minus the guns, people. Minus the guns.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): Ha! Got one! What? Did you not think I was bewildered?

§§FOOTNOTE (sugarcane fumes): Does Bhutan do rum?

¶¶FOOTNOTE (eight iron): I love it when we're on the same page. BTW -- I use "eight iron" in my description because Hans almost got a hole-in-one off an eight at the Santa Fe Country Club Saturday. It's an homage.

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