04.16.2003 - 8:07 p.m.
I have these capri pants that
I bought back in, I don't know, 1999 or so. They are not the
sort that are in style now, they're cut just below the knee rather
than a few inches above the ankle. They are made of something
syntheticy - skin tight and stretchy.
I wore these pants once when
I picked JB up at an airport. I was killing time in the bar,
because how can you pass up those overpriced shitty drinks, and
some random man came over and sleazed, "Say, what do you
call those pants?"
"Space pants, baby,"
I said, tossing back my Manhattan and blowing a perfect smoke
ring his way. "Because my ass is outta this world."
No, I don't remember what the
hell I said. I do however remember working those pants,
you know? I looked, and I don't say this sort of thing often,
GOOD in those pants.
Well, the years have Not Been
Kind, or at least they Haven't Been As Kind As They Have Been
To, Say, Nicole Kidman, and those pants haven't fit in quite
I keep them because, ladies,
you know what I'm talking about, they are that one article of
clothing that I use as a weight gauge. I lose a few pounds, I
try on The Pants.
I'm saying, I tried them on
tonight and they almost fit. I can zip them up, and wear them
without doing that extended inhale thing,
but I wouldn't
quite try sitting in them yet. Or, I don't know, drinking a glass
My goal with Daruma-san was
to get to 125 pounds. I've lost some weight, but I know I've
gained a lot of muscle - I can see it. In my legs, my arms, my
back. Today on the scale (mid-day, fully clothed, after lunch)
I weighed 136.
I still want to get in better
shape, but maybe my goal will eventually be more related to the
Grey Outdated No Longer In Style Pants than a specific poundage.
On a related note, I went to
my Body Pump class last night and we had a new teacher, who apparently
is going to replace the old one permanently. Which bums me out,
because the new one is like Perky McStewardess, and I didn't
cotton to her one bit.
(I just thought I'd toss out
a southern colloquialism for shits and grins. Don't gitcher panties
in a bunch about it.)
There seem to be two types
of group fitness teachers. Type A, the type I love, are drill
sergeants. They've got a tough love thing going where they work
really hard to motivate you but they also ream you senseless.
They yell. They rip you a new asshole and at the end of the class
you thank them for it.
Type B are ex-cheerleading
captains. They have giant cheesy smiles on their faces. They
squeak things like "Hey hey hey! Let's woooorrrrrk!"
My kickboxing instructor is
totally a Type A. I swear she is so fucking awesome. I can be
on the verge of barfing up everything I've ever eaten EVER, soaked
in sweat from head to toe, gasping for breath so hard my lungs
are making a little eeeee sound, and when she says "Go!
One! More! Time!" I don't even think about quitting, I Just
So, working out, watching the
food intake, drinking Amstel Light instead of Bridgeport India
Pale Ale. It's all good. Progress is being made. Slowly, but
- hopefully - surely.
go back :::
comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004