Baby, I'm Going to Get Ripped

May is upon us! This means it is workout season in my household. Here is a post that I wrote in March to further explain...

Let me start out by giving you a mental picture of my better other half. Hubs is 6'5, 220 pounds, and 33 million cheeseburgers away from being overweight. As he gets older, a small beer gut is growing, but I think he looks great. I mean, I've never looked at him and thought, "I think I'm going to puke."

However, no matter how perfect I think Hubs is, he likes to drone on about how he wants to get ripped. In a very heterosexual way, he will nod at some built dude and say, "Do you see how big that dude is? He is ripped."

When I think of ripped, I think of someone intoxicated to the point of dancing in a Dr. Seuss hat with glow sticks or I think of those big muscled gorilla juice heads on Jersey Shore. I am not attracted to either, so I am kinda scared of this ripping that Hubs wants to possess.

Warning: You will see the word "ripped" multiple times in this post. Sorry.

"I'm going to start working out in May."

This is my husband's famous line.

It is always May. I assume this seems like a good time to start a regimen since summer is right around the corner, and Hubs wants to be all sexy-fied in his swim trunks. Come to think of it, he vows to do a lot of shit in May- balance the budget, pay off something, buy something with the money he's saved by balancing the budget or paying off something. May is like Chinese New Year for southern white boys.

Now, that's ripped.

One night last May, Hubs decided to kill a 6-pack and watch television. He got sucked into a P90X infomercial. Of course he did. He was half lit, it was May, and P90X promises a damn good rippin'. I can see why he was mesmerized.

When I woke the next day, he tells me about his purchase. Since I am a cheap ass, my first concern was the cost. He didn't disclose the full price, but whatever the price, it was worth it because, "Baby, I'm going to get ripped." When I checked the online bank statement, and I discovered the full price for the P90X program, the only thing that had been ripped was our damn checking account.

My husband was as giddy as Tammy Faye Bakker at a Maybelline convention when the box of shit arrived-43 DVDs, an eight gallon jug of Whey Protein Powder, and a cook book that contained recipes with ingredients like turmeric. I am from Tennessee. I don't cook with turmeric. Ever.

Our first instruction was to take his "before" measurements. After the kids are in bed, I walk in the bedroom to see him standing half naked holding my grandmother's measuring tape. At first sight, I want no part of this, but I am told that I have to take the measurements.

So we start with his neck, arms, chest, etc, and then he says I have to measure his inner thigh. He offers to remove his boxers, because men are putrid perverted animals. If his woman is wrapping a slinky measuring tape around his limbs, he automatically assumes other things will take place. After I punched him in the stomach, I finished the measurements. Boxers in tact. 

Then I have to take "before" photos. He's flexing and doing weird things, all the while boasting about how ripped he was going to get. Of course, I am making fun of him. "Keep making fun, I'm going to get ripped."  The pictures get taken. We are done. Boxers in tact.

The night of the first work out is upon us. After watching the DVD for a measly 3  minutes, I  had broken a sweat. It looked hard. I went downstairs to get on the elliptical machine and watch The Golden Girls. I have no desire to work out to the point of cardiac arrest. I follow Suzanne Somers' program. I eat organic. I am much healthier for it. And yes, I just shamelessly plugged a Suzanne Somers' book. Get it. It works. For reals.

After the first workout, Hubs was pumped. We had to go to Dick's Sporting Goods and purchase a plethora of shit to add to his regimen-dumbbells, barbells, yoga mats, some scary looking contraption that bolts to the door frame for pull ups. He was running around like a Schnauzer at Petco- tongue hanging out, pissing on the floor. He was determined to buy anything that would help him get ripped. P90X ripped through our checking account again.

On day 7 of the work out, I heard the most God-awful sound coming down the stairs. It sounded as if my dead grandpa had risen from the grave, jogged 30 miles to my house, scaled the roof, somersaulted through the window and crept down the stairs-all while still dead, mind you. It was a tormented noise.

I look to see Hubs gripping the bannister and sliding down the stairway. Not walking-sliding. His legs were hot jelly. Let me make it clear that my husband is no weakling. I have seen him carry an old school, lead filled, 32 inch rear projection television up those stairs...with ease. It wasn't as if he had just done the Richard Simmons "Dance Your Pants Off" workout on VHS. He'd just tackled day 7 of P90X, and he was sliding down the stairs. He had been defeated. 

Before I could ask him if he was okay, he floated past me, went to the toilet and vomited.

P90X has become P07X. Seven days. Seven.

While cleaning the other day, I came across the box full of P90X garbage.

"Can I give this shit to Goodwill?" I shouted down the stairs.

"No. I'm going to start working out in May." 

And the cycle continues.