Today I looked at my body quivering like a chihuahua even though I stood still and I thought to myself 'This is not Star Fleet material.' Seriously, if our dreams are our better selves then that dream I've always held of being summoned to the bridge and seeing Spock and Kirk making impossible decisions but making them like men, does not include belly rolls, moobs, or a uniform I'd need Garak to let out at the seams (yes, mixing my Trek; if you don't get it I weep at your uncoolness).
So I worked out yesterday. Yes, I had some chocolate covered almonds but let's stay focused: a full 30 minute, fully sweaty workout. Some may call the modified motions I was doing the "Old Lady Turbo Jam" but let me tell you something: an old lady's workout will kick your ass. Particularly a doughy, flabby one that hasn't broken a true exertion sweat (folding laundry doesn't count) in months. I did sweat from playing tennis but that was mainly from trying not to fall down. But I stuck with it, my friends, the whole 30 minute "Gilad: Bodies in Motion" VHS tape I taped off Fit TV before Discovery Health sucked the network up and turned it into the "What Tumor Am I?" marathon. Me, Gilad, and a bevy of background exercisers so toned I should've gotten a contact orgasm. 30 minutes in the basement, just me and the sweat blinding me to the point I looked like Laurel Hardy crying.
Felt pretty damn good. Had a few more chocolate covered almonds when I finished. Is this a breakthrough? Not yet. More a yes and no start. I'll be back down there but won't take months in between to do it. If I ever get to be beamed down I don't want the ship to have to break out the extra large transporter to do it.
Best believe that.
Live long and prosper, y'all.
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