Stupidly, I started P90X with my boyfriend the other day.  If you don’t know what P90X is, it’s an “exercise” program on DVD’s.  Exercise is in quotations there because it isn’t really exercise; it’s mind-numbing torture set to music.  I have a feeling it was developed by the guards at Guantanamo Bay to punish the detainees.  When it arrives in the mail, it comes with a pull up bar and a meal plan. It should come with a defibrillator and a paramedic in a can.  I’m in so much pain, I’m whimpering every time I move.  The last time I was this uncomfortable, I went to the hospital and got sent home with a prescription for Vicodin and a brand new baby.  The only part of my body that’s functioning without severe discomfort is my fingers.  I guess the fitness guru; Tony Horton (no relation to Tim Horton and his fantastic doughnuts, just incase you Canadian folks are wondering) hasn’t found a way to sculpt the phalanges yet. 

I ordered this six-disc set of satanic rituals about a year and a half ago, I intended on doing this exercise program in lieu of joining a gym.  I’ve had two gym memberships in my life.  Historically, I never actually go use the exercise equipment.  The memberships basically only inhibited me from spending $50.00 more on beer, a month.  I discovered after signing the first contract that I don’t like working out with people around.  I hate waiting for some sweaty, mouth breathing slob to disembark the treadmill just to run like a hamster on a wheel, while watching CNN with no sound.  Plus, I was afraid to touch anything.  I didn’t want to contract some brain-eating fungus from the free weights.  I forgot about that when I signed the second contract, but then replaced my initial discovery with the alternate realization that I don’t like working out…period.

I was really excited when the P90X arrived.  I was hoping I would use it regularly and start living a healthier lifestyle.  Five minutes in to watching the first DVD, I thought, “Fuck this.  Get me a Twinkie,” and changed my mind.  The P90X went unviewed by me until Monday.  My boyfriend, who willingly tortures himself with this exercise program on a semi-regular basis, suggested I should join him.  I foolishly agreed. 

I blame Dora the Explorer for my misery, because that’s easier than blaming myself.  I have this amusing habit of changing the lyrics of songs I find horrifically annoying, to more entertaining versions, in my head.  If you haven’t tried it, I highly recommend it.  It’s normally harmless; I’ll change something like “direction” to “erection” and giggle at my immature remixes.  This habit has gotten me into a bit of trouble.  For those of you that don’t have children, Dora, like her name implies, is an explorer.  She and her monkey friend “Boots” travel around a fictional landscape on the Nickelodeon channel singing in English and Spanish.  Near as I can figure, the monkey is named Boots because he is…wait for it…wearing boots.  I don’t understand how cartoons can get away with this shit.  I wear thong underwear, no one calls me “Butt Floss”. 

Anyway, Dora and Boots are annoying to me and highly entertaining to children.  They lack creativity and are accompanied by many singing inanimate objects on their 30-minute mission to drive me bat-shit crazy.  One of these singing characters is a backpack.  The backpack has its own theme music…it goes something like “Back-pack!  Back-pack! Back-pack! Back-pack!”  See? I told you, no imagination there.  In order to keep myself from sending death threats to a fictional character, I changed the lyrics to a more age appropriate “Back fat! Back fat”.  My version sings the praises of the little layer of blubber women sometimes develop on their back that rolls over the top of their braziers.  You’ve seen it before; don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.  Men have it too, but it’s not as obvious because they don’t have to squeeze into a bra to go out into public.  I was pleased with myself for altering the tune, until I happened to get a glimpse of the backside of my body and discovered that I had developed back fat. 

Damn you, Dora.  If you weren’t so repetitive and annoying I never would’ve had to change your song and could go on blissfully oblivious.  I tried to ignore it, but once I know something is there, I tend to obsess about it.  I know that there is no undergarment that is going make my back fat look more voluptuous.  Since I don’t have a plastic surgeon on speed dial and am not brave enough to try do-it-yourself liposuction with my dad’s shop vac, the only way to banish the pudge is through exercise.  

We’re on day two; I cannot move any of my extremities.  I’m told the pain will subside and the exercise will get easier.  I don’t buy it.   I have only proved to myself how out of shape and uncoordinated I am.  I’m trying to keep up with Mr. Horton and those muscular assholes in the video, but I know I look like a drunken Water Buffalo.  It’s hard to follow instructions when you don’t know your right from your left.  He keeps encouraging me to do what I can, but I think I may just invest in a few baggy t-shirts until I can find something new to worry about.  P90X is going to kill me.