This morning on NPR an announcer coaxed listener-supporters with an album of classic music, called something like the top 40 of classical (no: #1 Classical Album). The teaser was the opening notes of Vivaldi's Spring concerto. Why anyone would want Spring apart from the other seasons, why would anyone want an anonymous album without knowing which symphonies or conductors were involved? Also the announcer said it would be a great way to start your collection of classical music. I suppose I should expect the condescending tone, deal with it or not listen. But erg.
Today was four weeks after I started--minus, in my own mind, the five days of peanut butter and ice cream in my mother's house--so it was measurement day.
I have lost allegedly 3+ pounds of fat--so little?--plus a fraction of pound of muscle--losing muscle? Yet according to his measurements, I've lost .75" at least from each chest, waist, and hips. How that--so much volume though so little change in composition--is possible I don't know. The chest difference I attribute to the first measurement's having been taken over a t-shirt and today's over a snug tank top. I know I haven't worked on weights and core exercises as much as I could have, and the trainer thinks I do too much cardio. As far as I'm concerned, I'm doing really well eating-wise. No crap, like pizza; no excess, like Chipotle; not much fat, like cheese; and mind-boggling small amounts of chocolate. I like to think my stomach's assuming more normal proportions: I used to be able to eat a full burrito and then want dessert (it took until my second or third burrito to eat a whole one at once) and I hope, by having more reasonably-sized portions, that the resting state of my stomach might decrease so I feel full with less.
Then we attacked my legs. Hack squats, lengths of the gym in lunges interspersed with wall-sits (now on one leg or with him pushing on my shoulders), the ball-squat/standing lunge/squat routine. I told him I wanted a butt exercise, and he taught me a fitball exercise: shoulders on the ball, feet on the floor, 25 pounds on the lower belly, drop the hips, squeeze the glutes, raise the hips. Ack.
It started out innocently enough. I just wanted some fisheye shots of the buddy like these of many puppies. It soon disintegrated into buddy torture.
 First, RDC lulls the buddy into a false sense of security. |
 This is the scoop with head pet, the favored hold. |
 If you stop petting, he'll duck his head, exposing his tempting neck. |
 Blake worships the napkins. Sometimes the only thing to do is make a buddy burrito. |
 Next, the emotional distress for art's sake. Even though RDC had no intention of leaving the house, he donned his fleece just to document the buddy reaction. |
 Blake hates all jackets. If you never left the house, you wouldn't need a jacket now would you? |
 You have to put him in his cage before you put on your jacket. Or sunglasses. Otherwise he'll snap. |
 He's really as vicious as can be. |
 In a comical way, that is. |
 After all that, it's a tired yawny buddy. |