Tag Archives: Gyming

Superman Body Builder

If Beyoncé has her alter ego …

So do I. This is my Monday buddie, because I need all the energy I can get to face the week.

This is my exact facial expression all through the day as I type away on my keyboard. No wonder no one bothers me the whole day.

Have a Super week everyone … pun intended 😛

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sick alien emoticon

This Pic is a True Account of me – Not Photoshop-ped

Don’t you hate it when you think you’ve dodged a bullet only to find you’ve been slashed in the rib-cage instead?

Or maybe this just happens to me -_-

Spring is just around the corner; seriously it’s so close I can smell it.

I was secretly (because I didn’t want to jinx it. A fat load of good that did me) thrilled that I had managed to remain flu free this entire cold, harsh winter season but alas, the nasty bugger took me down last Saturday.

It’s so severe that ten days later, it’s still sinking its molars into me. And to top it all off, I had the most bizarre dream last night.

I dreamt I was RPM-ing the entire day (on a spin bike people, on a spin bike) so naturally I woke up exhausted. I mean literally, completely effing brutally smashed. Why? Who does that universe, who?

YOU that’s who!

I mean give me a break! I may have been able to forgive you if you’d just told me the name of that hot guy I was cycling next to but whatever. I would have just slobbered all over him anyway so the joke’s on you.

Well not really but I like it when I have the last say.

Now if you’ll please excuse me while I curl into a ball of woeful flu stricken misery on the floor under my desk right now. Splutter, splutter, splutter …

They say exercise is good for you …

I always knew there was a reason I didn’t believe them.

Chalk Outline of Person

As a sidebar, at least my flexibility has improved.

Me after a workout … just before I was wheeled out of the gym. Thank goodness for going to a gym where (I just realised may be a sign), a lot of paramedics attend.

Image Taken From: http://www.dreamstime.com/royalty-free-stock-photography-chalk-outline-person-image3763297

Know how to Bullshit …

These were one of the first words our Journalism lecturer uttered to us bright eyed, raring to go Journalism enthusiasts when we joined University.

“A good journalist can bullshit about anything”, he blasted over the microphone in the cavernous lecture hall as we sat there gawking at how someone in a “teacher’s” position could so easily swear in a mock classroom. I know, I know, boy did we have some catching up to do on reality!

Anyway, this story (although pretty pointless as well) has nothing to do with my wild and unrestrained journalism days (let me live the fantasy okay?).

I decided to put this theory to test with my gym instructor after hours of targeted researching on the net over the weekend (basically just bumming around really) on how exercising is really and truly detrimental to my health. Turns out my gym instructor, in addition to being allergic to sanity, happiness, content taste buds and a well rested skeletal structure (just to mention a few) is also highly allergic to apparent, well researched “bullshit”.

Either that, or I’m not as good a journalist as I think -_-

My vocabulary has been distilled down to four letters: D-I-E-T.

And no, it doesn’t stand for diet, though I am a little creeped out right about now seeing as I just realised Edit and Diet are made up of the same letters!

I hope it’s not a sign from the universe but considering I have been doing little more than sitting on my ‘you know what’ and editing the crap out of my novel, I’m going to bet the contents of my pocket it is.

Which, in case you’re wondering (because why wouldn’t you?) includes a worn out (literal meaning – pristine copy) of my exercise program, a half chewed/licked Violet Crumble and a recycled chewing gum.

I have no idea why no one ever wants to gamble with me.

I need a Fix for my “fix”

I’m broken. I’m sure of it. It can be the only explanation for putting myself through the torturous ordeal of working out on a daily basis.

Apparently, pesky little endorphins are to blame, those minute satanic blips in my body that decided to pop out of nowhere, without any warning or requests for permissions to be present that I have unknowingly become addicted to.

So will someone please provide me with a fix for my fix? Of all the vices, who knew I would choose the treadmill for my drug of choice? That’s just lame -_-

Being Good can be Painful …

So, I was a good girl yesterday and finally decided to bravely jump onto the treadmill at my gym after a four week sabbatical.

Let me just say, if you aren’t particularly fond of tragic endings – to stop reading now.

After a horrendous ten minutes (is it just me, or does time conspire to travel at a MUCH slower rate when you’re on the brink of passing out due to a lack of oxygen consumption?), I have made the following discovery:

1. You should be able to sue Mother Nature for feeling as much pain as exercise causes you.

2. There are muscle groups you really, truly should not be able to feel as a general, unarguable rule. In fact, I would like to put a petition in to eradicate them due to their detrimental repercussions. Just like our Appendix.

3. I’d like to also be able to freely reprimand whoever created the wonderful, albeit, sometimes frustratingly useless human appendages we have all been forcefully “gifted”. Don’t get me wrong, I am very grateful for all of them, I would just like to revisit the pain sensors blueprint please. Pronto.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check if my thighs are still attached to the rest of me.