Discourse on exercise or "youth is wasted on the young. "
Whilst in the first fifteen minutes of an hour-long session with my DVD coach, Gil, I was thinking, the etymology of the word "exercise" must surely come from the Latin "ex-ciso"(*), meaning, to separate one's brain from the body. This exercise thing is not a logical endeavor.

It is my personal version of medieval self-flagellation. I can't publicly do the cat-o-nine tails thing, so, in its stead,  I choose the socially accept method of exercise.

It's not even that strenuous. It's just tedious. I've been following Gilad Janklowicz's "Cuts and Curves" DVD for six months now.  On alternate days, I try to get  some form of aerobics, whether it's the elliptical,  tabata squats, or serious bash sessions with the punching bag.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I was not built for a "curve", so I'm aiming for a"cut" instead. I like Gil's variety of  using exercise bands, as well as free weights.  I started with both green and red bands, and I just graduated to the blue band for biceps.

I used to follow his Bodies in Motion program in the 80's, and he is consistently encouraging. He shows both proper and improper form,  to work the correct muscles.

My goal used to be to not be out of breath when I run up two flights of stairs, and to move furniture and lift things easily. I've since accomplished that, and raised the bar.  Now  I want to be able to run for some distance without huffing, and to lift my own body weight, or at least do the rock climber's hang (first two-handed, then one).

Back to the self-flagellation bit. I am neither anorexic nor bullimic. I love pizza, chocolate, cheesecake, and french vanilla ice cream too much for  my own good. And I don't even eat that much of it! My body seems  to enjoy those foods so much, it holds onto them for a good long time. I keep telling my scale "muscle weighs more than fat. "

A moment on the lips, leads to much mental anguish, and more punishment on the elliptical.  I have no will to resist my comfort foods.  Rather than alter my diet, I'd rather pay the sweaty sacrifice to the gods of Precor and Nautilus.

Surely, God did not intend for me to eat like a bloomin' rabbit, because he cursed me with taste buds. No matter what you do to salad,  dress it up, blend and mash it and arrange it prettily on the plate, face it, any green leafy vegetable is still a bitter abhorrent grassy fiber. I may as well chomp on printer paper.   

My ideal setup would be to strap a keyboard to the elliptical so I could surf while I paid for my sin of indulgence.  

(*) There is no Latin "ex-ciso". I made that up. Apologies to my dear Latin teacher, Mr. Kizner, who must surely have disowned any memory of the quiet kid in his class.