Thanks to the film Rocky, it is common knowledge that to become a boxing champion, one must possess the Eye of the Tiger. Rocky hit the streets of Philly at the butt-crack of dawn every morning to run. That level of discipline is a mystery to me. I am on a quest to find a workout regimen that brings results, yet requires as little effort as humanly possible.
I would describe my ambition as the Eye of the Couch Potato. I love watching movies.
At the age of 41, I see dudes with washboard stomachs, and I desire having that. Just once, I’d like to look down and see my wiener instead of my gut. Some might call it jealousy, others would call it a mid-life crisis. It is my superficial goal; a good self-image is healthy for self-esteem.
In another movie, War Machine, General Glen McMahon wakes every morning and puts on his running shoes. Then he runs 7 miles before chow-time.
I am inspired to try new healthful routines based on movies I see, so last night I hatched a “fail-proof” plan. My goal was to awake at 5:00 a.m. and run 6 or 7 miles. I planned my route, laid out my running clothes and shoes, and made it to bed early.
In between falling asleep and seeing my endeavor through, something went terribly amiss. I woke up 11 minutes before the alarm went off. In that groggy moment, I had the thought, “F&*K running.” I disabled my alarm and laid my head back on the pillow.
Even if the “Italian Stallion” didn’t have a fight coming up, I don’t think he would have pulled a stunt like this. It is obvious–Rocky is cut from a pristine cloth of champions, while it is obvious I am cut from a dirty alley diaper. What made this inexcusable is I can run 7 miles without dying.
Moving forward, I have one of two options. 1) get my butt in gear and try again or 2) blog about it so people can stay tuned. It seems to be therapeutic knowing 11 other people might read this. Then months later, maybe one of them will stop me on the street and ask me to do 100 sit-ups without my shirt on.
I struggle with expectations. As of today, I have gone 38 days without any fast-food. I sincerely thought the pounds would just be falling off like skirts off of women at a Mötley Crüe concert. But it is just not happening as fast as I would like.
Today provides me with a new opportunity to not be a groggy sloth of a man. I am going to track my food, run, and maintain a 5-mile buffer in between me and the closest fast-food taco franchise.