I am a commitaphobe. I'm not afraid to admit that - in most circumstances it comes in handy, keeps me from making plans I am not prepared to make. "Dinner next week?" - we'll see. "Cancun for Spring Break?" - talk to me closer to time. What if something goes wrong? What if I don't feel like eating a single meal all of next week? How am I supposed to explain that to someone without hurting their feelings?
The best ways to get me to commit to a task are A)pay me B)bet me. The latter explains why I am in the middle of week 3 of p90x (henceforth known as The Bitch).
For those of you who are thinking about jumping on the extreme-workout wagon, let me give you a rundown of the schedule for the first three weeks of the journey.
Day 1 - Chest and back: Just freaking shoot me. This workout is so hard all pretence of eloquence escapes me. Six types of push-ups (yes, there are actually six out there), 5 types of pull-ups, all done with max reps...twice (hence the "X").
As each workout proceeds we are encouraged to set goals per exercise. Since I am fully committed to this program, I comply. First time around I feel good. The leader, Tony, and his cronies set goals along the lines of 30 (and more annoyingly, 31). I am realistic and set a goal along the lines of 10, which I proudly announce to the television when asked. "Great," comes Tony's reply after my proclamation...sometimes I feel like I am watching Dora. These 10 I do with relative difficuty, the military push-ups come after regular push-ups, the wide-set pull-ups after reverse grip pull-ups...but I get through dammit.
The second time around, however, I have to really commit myself. I must muster all the discipline I have put on reserve for so many years and let it rush to my mind, to my biceps, to my back and chest. I must fight the fatigue and shove aside that voice in my head telling me to stop, to give up. I grunt, and breath, and groan, and scream...
This doesn't work. I fall on my face.
Over and over I fall on my face. No amount of proper breathing or focus helps. I start at the top of a push-up in beautiful form, but as soon as my elbows come out of their locked position, my joints become bendy straws and I fall to the ground.
"If you can't do it yet, just keep trying," the asshole on the screen encourages me from his 45-year-old-but-looks-maybe-20-at-the-most mouth, the sound resonating in his perfect chest, while his 45th rep looks more perfect than my first.
At this moment I make a real commitment. From this second on, I hate all people with muscles.
