Truth time: I’m a naturally skinny girl. It’s just how it is. My metabolism has been kind, and more often than not my lifestyle has been its friend. Except for that one time in college. And that other time when I was unemployed. Wait, and also that other, oh never mind.
But you know what is equally true? I’m out of shape. I’m thin, sure, but I collapse on the ground after 10 push-ups. A mile at a slow jog has me sucking wind. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.
I’m just plumb outta shape, folks.
I spent the first 18 years of my life on a cattle ranch. I rode horses and wrestled calves. I carried two 5-gallon feed buckets at a time down a long row of bunks fighting off hundreds of yearling calves. What am I trying to tell you?
I’m trying to tell you I was RIPPED. I had 12-gauge shotguns for biceps, and I could run down a cow on foot. Really. If she was half way cooperating.
But then I went to college. And then I entered the real world. (Those two are not the same thing.)
My lack of fitness is what brought on the dive into Insanity so I can get ready for Project Half Marathon. It’s working. I think.
I had my second fit test for the Insanity program today. It’s essentially a 20-minute death package that could take the place of Chinese water torture. It’s called Insanity for a reason, folks.
I did better than my first one two weeks ago. I’m not entirely sure how accurate my numbers are. Nothing torques me off more than when I lose count in the middle of a 20-minute death package. But I’m sure I did better on everything. Almost everything.
There’s an exercise called push-up jacks. It’s a combo push-up/jumping jack on the ground, and I stink at it. I have wimpy arms. Push-up jacks make me fall to the floor and cry for my mommy. That wailing you heard this afternoon? That wasn’t the wind. It was me in my little country house and being lightweight didn’t help a thing.
Skinny doesn’t equal fitness. Remember that.