The plank of death

I don’t like much about exercise, but if I had to pick a least favorite part, it would be running. I wouldn’t run unless something was chasing me and even then, I don’t think I would do it well. The runner-up (ha!) would certainly be ab exercises of any type. Perhaps that is why my stomach has never ever ever ever returned to its pre-baby state.

When my personal trainer enthusiastically moves into the ab portion of the workout, I have to resist the urge to trip her, or pull the fire alarm in the gym. While I often question why I pay her to torture me, it is never more prevalent than it is at this time. A few weeks ago she caught me off guard when she said that we were moving to the ultimate ab workout and it was a CRUNCHLESS-ab exercise. Excuse me? You have a CRUNCHLESS-ab exercise that you’ve just conveniently forgotten to incorporate up to this point? Had I known CRUNCHLESS-ab exercises existed, I would certain have abs of steel by now, no?

Moments later, she effortless demonstrated a position called the plank. Not only did it look obnoxiously simple, but you didn’t have to do anything once you assumed the position. Yup, you heard it right, a stationary crunchless-ab exercise. Does it get any better than that? After she showed me how to do the plank, she told me that our goal would be for me to hold it for one minute. Oh, absolutely. Where has this exercise been all of my life?

I quickly got into the plank position. It didn’t take too long before karma totally showed up to kick my ass. I was mentally trying to back track to moments earlier; trying to erase my smug look and those taunting words like easy, effortless, and wimpy. My arms started quivering, certainly milliseconds away from spontaneously combusting. All the while, I was trying to figure out who sat the baby elephant on my lower back, as the hundreds of pounds of pressure there certainly was not a figment of my imagination. While I bit my lip and contemplated standing up and sprinting out to my car before she could catch me, she proudly declared that I had reached the 15 second mark, only 45 more to go! Then my head exploded.

As I was preparing to not-run on my treadmill tonight, I made Craig take a picture of me demonstrating the plank for all of you. For some reason, talking about the PLANK OF DEATH is not nearly as effective without a visual aid. The PLANK OF DEATH doesn’t require much explanation. In fact, the photo likely explains it much better than I could. I would easily write two paragraphs and you’d end up confused, standing on one leg with your arm wrapped behind your back, trying to figure out what to do next. The only caution for the plank (beside its intent to kill you) is to keep your butt flat, fairly level with your back and legs. Don't stick your butt up, or lower it down. In other words, if it doesn't feel like it is seconds away from killing you, you are DOING.IT.WRONG.


If you happen to enlarge this picture, please pretend that the debris on the rug is residue on my camera lens. It isn't, but it is so much better to pretend than to wonder what on earth really is on that rug...

A few things I’d like to say:

First, I dare you to try it, like triple-dog-dare.

Second, if you try it, you are hereby commanded to return to this blog and let me know just how long you were able to stay in the plank. Just don’t say longer than me, I am a sore loser.

Third, if you put a picture on your blog of you doing the plank, I might just love you forever.

Is this a true testament of the whole misery loves company ideology?

When all else fails

My name is Lyndsay and I am an anti-exercise-aholic. Even thinking about exercise makes my stomach churn and my feet cement themselves to the ground in protest. I’ve tried very unsuccessfully to engage in some degree of physical activity numerous times over the past few years. I just don’t think I have it in my genetic make-up. In fact, there are few things I find less enjoyable than exercise. I swear my body hates exercise too. Historically, when I have made an attempt to exercise, it rebukes by failing to yield ANY results and taunts me with hallucinations of other ways I could be spending that time. One time last year, my body laughed at me and gained weight when I tried to exercise. Uninformed people try to say that is because your body is gaining muscle. I know better, it is my body telling me hard work, sweat, and sore muscles won’t be tolerated.

This year, I’ve tried to look at exercise in a different way. Yes, I tried. However, it still sucks. It is still work. It is still about as much fun as a lobotomy. However, there is something about creeping towards 30 that makes your metabolism rebel. I think mine naps most of the time, waking up to half-heartedly engage in work a few measly hours of the day. Then there is the whole conundrum of the post pregnancy stomach. The last three years of threatening it, ignoring it, and hoping wishful thinking would abolish it have not been fruitful. That mind over matter crap doesn’t deserve the hype it gets. The trifecta of this dilemma came in the form of an angry right hip. Yes, at 29 I have a hip problem. I am not sure what I did to make it so uncooperative. I am expecting the Red Hat Society invitation in the mail any day. So, here I sit out of shape, with a beer belly stomach, and a wobbly right hip, finding myself in the middle of a Onethird Life Crisis.

So, I did what any insane, self-punishing, irrational person who hates exercise would do. I hired a personal trainer. I committed to an eight-week program. I paid for all eight-weeks in advance. For those of you wondering if I’ve lost my mind, I think we can enter this decision into evidence as Exhibit A (or possibly Z if any of you are keeping track). Do you think they have a non-exercise related program? I'm going to try to enroll in that one.

I am thinking my typical axiom of needing to live up to other people’s expectations will return the benefit to me with this approach. What do you think?