Dear Lord, my ass is
aching. And not for the reasons you’re
probably thinking.
I know I’ve been MIA for
several weeks (I guess it’s now been months, yikes!) but I’ve had some pretty
intense family shit hit the fan recently that I’d rather not get into. But I hope to catch ya’ll up soon on some of
my end-of-summer fun and finish up some reviews on a ton of shows. Keep checking back.
Now back to my ass.
About a month ago I decided
to quit my bitching and moaning, get off the couch and do something about my
middle-aged, saggy tuchus (It also seems
I’m slowly turning into a grumpy, old Jewish man. Who knew?).
With lipo pricing well above
my meager means, I decided to do it the old fashioned way. That’s right, folks, diet and exercise
(insert audible gasp here). For years I’ve faithfully paid my NYC fat tax - i.e. NY Sports Club membership - but
somehow have not been able to drag my self-pitying ass the three blocks to my
local branch.
After surfing the web for some
motivation, I stumbled upon the website for Mark Fisher Fitness. Like a drag queen to Ricky’s (very
NYC-centric reference there, sorry my non-city friends), I was drawn
immediately to the glittery menu tab and pictures of muscled hotties in bikini
briefs. Could this be the inspiration I’d
been searching for? I read further –
founded by former Broadway dancer, group classes taught by foul-mouthed, half-naked
instructors…unicorns, feather boas and tutus!
I’d stumbled upon fitness Brigadoon, only without Scottish accents.
Though quite a hefty
financial commitment, I decided the more I spent, the less likely I’d be
willing to skip workouts for a hot date with a bacon double cheeseburger. So a day after stumbling upon the website, I
decided to pay a visit to MFF’s Enchanted Ninja Clubhouse of Glory and Dreams. Seriously, that's what they call their "gym." You can’t make that shit up.
As
it turned out, the day of my visit coincided with the first day of registration
for MFF’s highly popular Snatched in Six Weeks program – kind of like a super intense,
gay fitness boot camp with lots of talk about unicorns and "nailing it." I took this as
God saying, “You are a lazy whore. Get
your shit together and sign up now!” And
when God calls you a whore, you’d best listen up.
I
plunked down my $800, cried a little on the inside, and committed myself to six
weeks of "fitness glory" (another popular Mark Fisher-sim). Good thing, too,
because it turned out the program completely sold out in a matter of hours. But how was I to satiate my newly awakened fitness hunger? It was early September and Snatched wouldn’t
start until mid-October.
I’ve
always been an “all-or-nothing” type, so on impulse (I may have been hypnotized
by all the smiley faces and disco lights in the Clubhouse) I drained the rest
of my bank account and treated myself to a month-long, trial membership. Might as well have a little make out session with Mark Fisher before I decide to go legs up (metaphorically, of course).
After an initial consultation
where trainer Geoff continuously told me - and rightly so - that I was awesome, amazing and sexy, I
decided this was definitely the gym for me.
I then met with trainer Stephanie for a kettle bell (basically a cannon
ball with a handle) primer and to learn the core exercises I’d be using in
class. We instantly bonded when she equated
proper goblet squat form with trying to impale your butthole on a suctioned
dildo on the back wall of the gym.
Finally, a trainer who speaks my language.
If you haven't realized it yet, cursing and sex talk is a main component of the Mark Fisher experience. Fundamentalist Christians and Republicans, this may not be the program for you, though you'd be welcomed with open and loving arms.
I’ve now been taking class religiously (pun intended) twice a week for three weeks.
To be honest, it’s not even the exercise that keeps me coming back (or
the loosening pants or increased energy).
It’s the simple fact that people there tell me I’m sexy and hot even with my belly hanging out from under my T-shirt, my face grimacing and pouring
sweat, while I’m lying on my back glute pressing and grunting. That's true love.
Though I realize in an office
setting, such encouragement would seem a tad bit inappropriate (sexual
harassment suit, anyone?), I, for one, would welcome the opportunity for my
boss to say, “Hey, you sexy bitch, go ballz deep and type up this memo! Your are fucking nailing it today!” Seriously.
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