Carolyn Creative

This summer, I went to the NC mountains to join my family for some cool air and luscious blue views.  I returned home to a monster.  In my absence, my husband became obsessed with a phenomenon called P90X.  Heard of it?  It is a hardcore exercise program obtained from an infomercial.  Not only had Kevin cleared out a room in our basement, he’d dragged down mats, weights, and towels.  And in typical Kev-style, there were spreadsheets.

For, um, both of us.

I was confused.  What made him think I had any interest in joining him in this adventure?  My usual regimen of Mom and Baby Yoga class and super strolling?  I mean, I haven’t done exercise that made me jiggle since … high school.  I still had some baby weight hanging around.  What was he implying and more importantly, did he want to live?

The thing is — I’m one of those people who will try anything.  Belly dancing?  Sure.  Pottery painting?  Cucumber margaritas?  Right on.  Jeggings?  Well, not so much on the jeggings.

Before I knew it, Kevin and I are in the middle of Week 8 of P90X.  He is far more disciplined than me.  I have taken a few days off for a). extreme sleep deprivation and b). my birthday.  Are we fit, toned, glossy hardbodies?  Eh.  Not yet.  We do have stronger butts and we don’t get as sore anymore.

The biggest change is that Tony, the trainer behind P90X, has become part of our family.  When you spend an hour a day with someone, every day, you get close.  Tony’s cheerful encouragement and catch phrases now permeate our everyday activities.  For example, we now describe taking out the trash as “excellent” holding up our hands in an “x.”  A hiatus in spooning the baby applesauce is noted with “break!” and “break’s over!”  And we have several ballistic stretches such as “shakers” and “huggers,” which we bust out at inappropriate settings, like Yum Yum Better Ice Cream.

Will we make it all the way to Week 13?  Stay tuned …