It hurts to laugh. The length of time it takes me to travel up stairs has doubled and putting on a seatbelt is painful. But the worst part of P90X is not being able to polish off a box of Cheez-Its and a Boston Lager without thinking twice.
P90X is tough. It’s a six-day-a-week workout program that lasts a solid hour each day, each day works a different part of the body. Maybe the best part of P90X is that anyone can do it in there own home, and since its that close there’s really no reason not to. I question it everyday but ultimately wind up being glad I did it. Exercise relieves stress, improves your overall health, and blah blah blah blah.
Here’s the truth. I’m dying for a big, sloppy taco swimming in hot sauce and sour cream. I’m a baby, a sissy who likes to sleep in and complain when the remote is too far across the room. P90X is kicking my ass and throwing my normally comfortable, complacent endorphins all out of whack.
But I’m stuck. I have no one but myself to blame for the mess I’m in now. P90X host and my own personal trainer Tony Horton would be so disappointed in me. He’s a cornball and sometimes it’s hard not to laugh right out loud at the exercise guru but he does a great job cracking the whip. If I really did know Tony (we’re on a first name basis, especially when I swear at him) I could never justify washing down a big steak burrito with a Budweiser.
For now, I’m sticking with him. One week is in the past and it’ll only be another 83 days before I can pig out. Until then I’ll just keep passing by donut shops while repeating Tony’s cheesy mantras in my head.