I thought taking that little week off there last week would be no big deal. Haven’t you heard all kind of advice about how taking breaks from heavy workouts helps you perform better in later workouts? The “recovery period,” right? Wrong. If this is recovery, I’ll hop out of this fire and back into the frying pan.
I’ll be honest: I thought I was better than this. I did. I thought I was BETTER than making myself sore so late in the game. I thought I’d passed the point of sore. You know, I did my time. I want out of this muscle-aching Folsom, and over to the train on down to San An-toned-arm-baring! I knew I didn’t quite have the the Michelle-Obamas, yet. Not like I was selling gun show tickets. But I did think I was starting to get some water guns going. You know, like little bitty guns. Not supersoakers, just little backyard water pistols. Alas, not so.
I’m sore in places I’d forgotten were part of this body. The soreness is so pervasive that the weight of my clothes oppresses me. I am actually more sore now than I was after the first few workouts with P90X. How does that compute? After nearly two full phases, with all their ups and downs, backs and forths, tos and fros, gains and losses, I take one measly week off. One! Now I am back at the bottom, staring up at what I’ve overcome before, wondering if I’ll be able to overcome it again.
Looking to tonight, I have all the fear and loathing (with none of the Las Vegas) for whatever this workout may hold. I have it on good authority (that is, I looked it up) — tonight’s workout involves “Oblique V-up sit-ups.” At this point in time, the mere suggestion seems to defy the physics of my (LIMITED) capabilities. I can only think of one thing I’d like to do tonight . . . .
Yet even that seems too painful. What have I become?