The Post-Apocalyptic Workout

Where I've Been Since This Blog Started.

I ran a 5K.

I ran a 10K.

I ran another 10K, faster this time.

I ran a half-marathon.

I'm back at the gym lifting regularly.

(I still haven't shot a gun. But I haven't had to use my CPR training. So there's a plus.)

A friend recently alerted me to the "Run For Your Life" 5K obstacle course where you outrun...zombies.

I'll be running this weeks after my 40th birthday.

If you're in the Southern California area, maybe you'll join me?

 

Can't Sleep, Zombies Will Eat Me

Miss me? I'm not dead. Mostly because the zombie apocalypse hasn't happened yet. So that's a good thing. Me not being dead and the lack of zombies.

Anyway.

I started this project three years ago, because I was bored and because I was convinced something bad was going to happen and I wasn't going to be ready. Something bad is always happening somewhere. And most of the time, we have no control over it. We do have control over how we react to it.

And so the Post-Apocalyptic Workout was born.

But I burned out - mostly because of the constant emails telling me that I was doing it wrong.

You're doing it wrong and because of that you're going to die and the people you love are going to die then the people they love are going to die* and your pets are going to die and everyone's going to die and how do you feel about that, missy? OH WAIT YOU DON'T FEEL ANYTHING YOU'RE DEAD.

And then I started thinking maybe only assholes survive the apocalypse. What's the use of living if you're surrounded by assholes?

So not doing stuff turned out to be waaaaay easier than doing stuff and here I am, three years later. I have been Doing Stuff in Secret, like I weigh 15 pounds less now and I have earthquake supplies and...okay, that's all I've been doing for my zombie preparedness. JESUS BACK OFF, OKAY?

But then I started to miss it, this crazy little part of the Internet, with its conspiracy nerds and survivalists and those who just like a good zombie show, dammit. 

I'm not saying that I'm back.

I'm saying that I never left.

I don't know what this is going to become, but there are some things you just can't plan for.

SEE YOU IN HELL, BITCHES,

Nina the slackmistress

 

 

 

*I particularly like that the people I love love other people, not me!

 

Day 117: w00t! Zombie Hunting!

For your favorite Zombie Hunter, available at shirt.w00t!

(Hat tip: Teknocrat Ben!)

Day 113: Back to Basics.

10: Start ZombieWorkout
20: Run, lift, learn new skills
30: Goto 20

That's been the gist of the Post-Apocalyptic Workout thus far, the idea that it would be simple enough even for a classically educated and therefore completely useless individual like me to continue on to the promised-land of self-sufficiency.  Okay, maybe not total self-sufficiency, but maybe buying myself a slot or two in the lifeboat (so I'm not the first one thrown out, but maybe number two or three.)

I was able to finish the first challenge because I was the beginner of beginners.  I wrapped some wounds and beat on a dummy's chest (no, not my own, you pervs!) and hopped on the treadmill and suddenly eight weeks went by and I thought, this survival thing is a cinch.

Okay, I didn't really think that either, but I did think that a workout plan + a couple of skills every eight weeks would be doable.  Except that there's that little problem of mismanaging my time (or simply not having enough of it) and miscalculating my budget.

Ask anyone: I'm a pretty decent multitasker.  As a writer, this is hugely important as you can be working on one script while rewriting another and heading into the writer's room to talk about yet another.  You need to be able to switch from writing mode to producer mode to diplomatic mode.  I have that part down pat.

Except that as most of you probably know, I'm not working a regular writing gig now, so I manage with an amalgamation of a bunch of different jobs: I work part-time at a gym, I answer customer service emails for a website, I'm on staff at a dog rescue organization, I'm doing some online marketing for a medical software company.  I also have this blog, my regular blog, and a new blog that a company has built for me (in that I can't blow it off.)  I keep up with my workouts, I look for new possible writing work, and oh yeah, I think I get to sleep in there somewhere.

Clearly, things suffer.  I blew my wad on my lockpicks and my chin up bar for this challenge, thinking that money for a freelance gig would come through and I'd be able to use a bit o' that scratch to take up guns and and check out practice locks.  Except the bastards screwed me, so I'm looking at the upcoming deadline for Challenge #2 and realizing that I won't meet it. 

I could make this a priority over everything else, but I also have to make my car payment.

Some of you have asked if I thought that you could do this sort of survival thing on your own, and while I am far far FAR from an expert, my answer is no.  Physical training is easy: an hour and a pair of running  shoes is all I need, and that I've kept up with, pas de probleme.  But the skill portions require time and planning and coordination and finally money. When it comes to those things, I'm pretty deficient on all counts.

Survival is doing the best we can with what we have.  I do feel like I have let people down.  But in an odd way, I've also learned what my limits are.  I do plan on overcoming them.  You'll just have to cut me the proverbial slack.

Abort, Retry, Fail?

I pick the one in the middle.

Day 101: Where, Where, the Hell is SlackMistress?

I'm going to let you in on a little secret:

I've been cheating on you.

Not with another blog (okay, well maybe a little ) but with another life. 

My present one.

While Post-Apocalyptic Training occupies a space in my brain, it's been temporarily relocated from the couch in front of the teevee (where I see it every day) to that table in the hallway where you dump your mail and your car keys.  I know where it is, mind you.  It's just buried under a bunch of junk. Junk like my part-time work-at-work job, my part-time work-at-home job, my volunteer job, my new sales/freelance job, my possible writing job, and oh yeah, that whole writing career thing.  Add to that four days of running, one to two days of spinning, three days weightlifting, and I occasionally have to shower.

Every day I think the people! the people need me to update!  After the zombies come, the ability to multitask is going to be as important as ever.  With one arm I'll hafta light a molotov cocktail with a dangling cigarette while my other arm (broken, natch) cradles my 45-pound pit bull. 

It's just that, y'know, I won't have to blog about it afterwards.

I kid, I kid.  I have a set of lockpicks that are making their way to be (through the mail; they're not sentient.   Yet.)  I purchased my set of picks with the knowledge I gleaned from here; however, prior to purchasing please make sure to see if it's legal to possess them in your state.  In California, it's only illegal to posses picks if one proves malicious intent. Desire to escape zombies is not malicious.  (Yet.)

If I told you that I wasn't having daydreams about being the living embodiment of my long-lost WoW Level 60 Undead Rogue, Sanguine, I'd be a damned liar.

Instead, I'm just a damned nerd.

Day 91: Run, Fatgirl, Run!

I have something to confess. 

I skipped running* twice this week.

I'd like to say it was due to the fact that I was whisked away to a Super Secret Location to complete a emergency rewrite on Hannah Montana Goes to Rehab  (you do know that's what I do for a living, right?  But things have been slow, so hire me already!) but I'd be lying.  And I'm already a liar.

Since starting my diet three weeks ago I've fluctuated between 900-1600 calories a day, well within (even below) the recommended weight-loss range.  I've been adhering to my workouts; I gave up sugar; and yet I am still fluctuating between 162-166 pounds.  The exact same numbers from when I began this little experiment, when I was running less and counting cake as its own food group.

I should be thrilled.  My body loves me! It's trying to keep me alive.  Being able to run while conserving precious life-sustaining fat is a Post-Apocalyptic Survival Technique only available through superior DNA. 

Which is fine.  But...I gave up CAKE.

When a woman on the Internet complains about her weight**, there are a few predictable responses. I'll sum them up here:

I like a woman with some meat on her bones!
No man likes a stick!
Don't lose your curves!
You're not fat!
You're being brainwashed by the Hollywood, the capitalistic and white male hegemony!
I am toothpaste, hear me roar! (Or whatever empowerminty slogan we're using these days.)

Now there could be a few plausible explanations.  I have special genes.  This is the most common I-can't-lose-weight excuse, and I ain't buying it.  I am not special.  Some of you think I have special willpower, but I assure you, separating my ass from the couch is just as difficult for me as it is for you - even with the added pressure of having my weight splattered across the screen like roadkill.

I'm hypothyroid, and my meds might need adjusting.  I haven't had my thyroid checked for nearly two years, so I need to get my butt into the doctor for a blood test.  In a Post-Apocalyptic World I'd have to stab myself in the arm and do the test myself with a coconut shell, a piece of gum and a rubber band.  But I've got this fancy pre-apocalyptic perk called insurance.  Time to use it.

My body composition is changing (that should probably be in the above responses).  But it's really hard to gain muscle, especially as a woman.  Although any gym discussion invariably leads to women who gain muscles easily and men who can't gain muscle at all.  It comes down to Women, Eat Less and Men, Eat More.  I'm tracking my intake so I know what goes into my mouth (insert dirty joke here) which means eat less.  Which means scaling calories back to 900-1200 a day, continuing my workouts, and tracking from there.

Yes, that's practically no food.  But I've done it.  I remind myself that I was down to 140 pounds six years ago.  But then I remind myself that I was 200 pounds two years before that. 

People sometimes ask me what it's like to be a woman in Los Angeles, a place where a supermodel lurks behind every corner.   They won the DNA Olympics,I tell people.  You wouldn't challenge Jackie Joyner-Kersee to a footrace.

But the writer in me says it makes a better story if I end up looking like this:

But, y'know, with bigger boobs.  I'm going to have to include bra-making in my post-apocalyptic skills, as I still sported a DDD chest when I was <20% bodyfat.  See: my body loves me.

I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet.  Part of me feels like I've made no progress, but as I thought about it while on my 'short run' - a mere twenty minutes, I thought holy crap, my short run is twenty minutes!

So my progress is glacial.  At least it's progress.  They say the turtle won that race. 

I'd better hope they're right.

*I initially wrote this as 'I skipped my runs' and then upon re-reading, realized that skipping the runs sounds like a good thing.

**The flip side of this is when you refer to yourself as attractive/pretty/beautiful/cute/thin/in shape, you're reminded that you are wrong and in fact you are ugly/hideous/fat/have a face that scares babies.  Let me tell you: you cannot win.

Intermission, Part Two.

Let me assure everyone that Post-Apocalyptic Prep is going as planned; if this was a movie, right now we'd be in the thick of my training montage.  In the meantime, check out this interview I did with Kyle of Zombie Squad!

Intermission: For Your Enjoyment...

How The Post-Apocalyptic Workout was born.  In pictures:

Let's hope "artistic talent" isn't a neccesary Post-Apocalyptic skill.

Day 82: No Gym? No Problem!

Occasionally I get emails from readers who complain that they'd love to start a Zombie Workout of their own, but they don't have access to  gym.  Today's entry is crossposted from the slack daily.  It shows that all you need is a barbell...and a dream.  Enjoy.

It began with a barbell.  A solitary rusted-out barbell that sat under our neighbor R.'s white pickup truck with the faked "Delivery Vehicle" placard (there so he could double park.)  I wondered if it was leftover from his Garage Sale days.  Every Saturday, R. would haul out odds and ends - a white pleather sofa with cigarette burns, a lone bicycle tire, a side table missing a leg.  It wasn't until we saw the selection of little boys' clothes and board games that we became concerned.  There haven't been children in this building for over 40 years.  Y'know how there's always one person in your apartment complex that you think sure, he could be a serial killer...well, in our complex, we have more than one, but this guy topped the list. 

Will asked R. point-blank where the clothes had come from, and he told us that he had dumpster-diving in Beverly Hills.  Someone had told him that Garage Sales were where the money was at, and he was certain rich people in Beverly Hills threw away perfectly good stuff.  We were thankful that we weren't going to have to bring in the police to find a stash of boys' underwear under his bed, but everyone in the building came to the same consensus: moving trash a couple of zip codes doesn't make it treasure.  The Garage Sales  stopped, and R. returned to doing whatever it is he does. 

Which brings us back to the barbell.  It rolled back and forth between the cracks in the driveway, shedding flakes of rust like a snakeskin.  I've lived here long enough to know not to touch it. Clearly someone had a plan for this barbell.  I just had to wait it out.

Sure enough, a few weeks later I pulled into the driveway to see another neighbor, P. working with the barbell.  He was alternating biceps curls with swings from the bottle of Stella that sat on the bumper of R.'s white pickup truck.  If the number of empty bottles were any indication, he'd been through a regular Ironman workout. 

I climbed out of the car. Hey, P.

Y'wanna work in? he asked.

Nah, I'm good.  The beer's a nice touch, though.

It's what Hulk Hogan does.

I couldn't disagree.

Over the next few weeks I noticed other people had joined him.  Our neighbor G. added a rusted chair for dips, and the guy without teeth who doesn't live here but who always hangs out in our backyard is always handy with a spot.  Morning, noon, and night someone's out there throwing around some iron, swigging a beer, and washing themselves off in our hose.  Instead of going around the building to his side door, P. climbs in and out of the open window of his apartment to adjust the music and fetch another six-pack.

The biggest excuse for not going to the gym is that it's not convenient.  I have no excuse.

There's a 24-Hour Hobo Fitness.  In my own backyard.

Day 77: Faster Slackmistress! Kill! Kill!

The Second Challenge has been posted.