They Beat Him Up Until the Teardrops Start

The alarm goes off and I don’t bother with the snooze; I just set a timer for 30 minutes later and give in. I curl back over to my son, a hand on his skinny little five year old legs. I’m in the same state I’ve been since the night before – not really asleep, but not moving, so it counts for something.

Forty minutes later, after another two rounds of alarms, my son asks if it’s time to get up and I tell him he’s welcome to if he wants, but I’m staying here. “Daddy. You didn’t do your yoga for the last three days.” I’m surprised he noticed. Of course he did.

He says, “I’ll do your yoga!” And he starts breathing on an fffffff while stretching in bed.

“You’re not going to do your yoga with me?”
“No, Jhonen. I haven’t been doing anything. I’m too sad.”
“About your friend?”
“Yes.”

Maintaining Fitness When the World Stops Turning

I am prone to exaggeration. It’s a curse, all this hyperbole, all this good clean fun. It renders language almost worthless. It robs superlatives of their power. So it goes.

Really, superlatives aren’t any good at moments like this anyway. The simplest language is what really fits.

My friend Nicole is dead and I’m sad about it. There.

OK.

Maybe a few superlatives.

Life is What Happens When You’re Busy Crying on the Bus

I had plans, such plans. But it’s like that famous John Lennon quote: “FUCK your plans, honkey!”

Illuminate the Main Streets and the Cinema Aisles

We are dancing around the house, my son and I, greeting the morning with all appropriate good cheer. I’ve already done my exercises, so I’m dancing around making breakfast when he staggers out of his room, his five-year-old mop of hair standing straight up. “Good morning, I love you!” I shout over the music. “Good morning, I love you!” he responds with sleepy eyes.

I open the fridge to get more fruit for his lunch and there is a beer in there, staring at me. Waiting.

Satan is All Around Us

I went to bed early last night, woke up with a fresh head, did yoga and ab stuff, made breakfast and lunch for my son and I, and hummed happy little songs all the while. “Rock your body on time!” I yelled at my son. “OK, I believe you!” he responded. Nothing can stop us now!

But, see, the thing is.

Dream Work Makes the He-Man Tank Top Fitness Blog Work

You cannot climb the mountain you cannot see, which is why it’s a good idea to visualize your goals. For instance, I sleep with a beach ball with a picture of Gillian Jacob’s face taped to it, because I dream of finding true love.

Visualization isn’t just for pool toys you use for rubbing yourself off, tho! You can visualize other things like fitness goals as well!

Workout Mix 4: The Bleux Rawking Society

Happy Friday! We made it, more or less! My left side is still jacked up from who-knows-what, so I feel less “we made it” than I ought to, but still! The sun is shining in Georgia and a weekend of good times and kite flying are ahead.

So! Last week I disappointed myself (and got rightly called out) when I realized there was not a single female artist on my workout playlist.

Let’s Talk More About Dieting, Shall We?

I did a show last night so my brain banana’s got a whole bunch of yick all over it. Let’s not turn to the blog Journey to ‘Sup Ladies for wisdom today. Let’s turn to others, because others have less yick or fewer yicks or I don’t even know, again with the yick.

If God Wanted Us to Starve He Wouldn’t Have Created Maytag Chips

I love cooking, LOOOOVE it. As a Mexican I’ve grown up with an ingrained sense of the loving purpose of food: if you truly care about someone, you will wake up at dawn and make a huge thing of arroz con pollo and stuff their faces with it until they’re unconscious. And then, while they’re unconscious, you’ll shove a thing of pink bread in their mouth to make sure their dreams are good. When they wake up they might be disoriented, so you should have a can of Big Red within reach. Once the sugar from the Big Red has worn off a little it’s time to go to the mall for churros.

You know. Food.

The Ritual

My 5:00 alarm goes off – the gentle opening chords to The Night Josh Tillman Came To Our Apt. – and though I feel rested and ready to rock I decide to snooze it, roll back over to put an arm around my son, take in the smell of his hair for ten more minutes before dropping down the chute and kicking the machinery of My Day into high gear. Once this starts it won’t stop for about 14 hours, so I take a moment. He makes a tiny noise, but is otherwise a million miles under the water. It is heavenly.