Eight To Go

The other night, I watched a whole series of Victoria's Secret workout videos that supposedly will show me how to achieve Candice Swanepoel level of hotness. I sat by my computer with a notebook and pen, noting down the various exercises. I put together a 45 minute workout using these new techniques and did it for the first time yesterday. At the end of those 45 minutes, I lay down on the floor as a single droplet of sweat rolled down from my armpit and to the floor, like a single tear mourning the physical agony I was in. It was perfection.

I used to do this video a lot:

But I had to stop because I got so angry when she would say, "Okay, eight more!" and start counting, "Eight, seven, six," only to stop counting at six and start babbling on about some shit. Then she would continue, "Four, three, two, one," except she would have done a whole lot in between six and four. It was infuriating and I would literally want to punch someone in the face as I did whatever I was doing.

If I was a fitness instructor, I would adopt military style counting. No bullshit. If I said, "Eight more!" I would fucking only make you do eight more. Other than that gripe, I adore the Fitnessista (see: video). I have been reading her old blog posts because I got bored studying kidneys (!!! my favourite !!!). I got kind of depressed reading these posts because it was all chickpea flour this, swapping bread for double vegetables that. It was downright depressing.

Maybe it is not my place to judge. In my eyes, perhaps, this seems like a restrictive life. But in theirs, perhaps they don't feel this way and this is a lifestyle that makes them happy.

J