The Post-Apocalyptic Workout

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 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: 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.

Day 74: Your Mission, If You Choose to Accept It.

Look at the Basic/Intermediate Skill List as well as the Advanced/Elite Skill List, and respond in the comments what you think are the TEN MOST IMPORTANT SKILLS TO KNOW to:

1. Survive the Zombie Invasion.
2. Prosper in a Post-Apocalyptic Society.

Now here's the catch: don't imagine you're you.  Y'see, you know stuff.  You're like, useful and shit.  You can start a car with a banana and grow a tomato with a piece of gum and a build a firearm with a pack of matches and a can of tuna.  No, don't imagine you're you.   

Imagine you're me, coming at this from a I-know-nothing perspective. A virtual tabula rasa.  A complete moron.  Take into account that I've got basic first aid and CPR covered, and list the ten skills from the above lists that you think are the bare-bones of living through the Zombocalypse.

Go.

Day 73: Challenge One = FAIL?

You be the judge.

The preceding broadcast can be viewed at blip.tv or YouTube!

Details on the next challenge Faster Slackmistress! Kill! Kill! coming...soon.

Day 70: A Sneak Preview...

(Via Engadget)

We're looking at guns, lockpicking, and a life sans sugar.  Y'know, stuff that's criminal.  Or should be.

Day 68: Putting it All Together.

Baby, wake up, I gotta go to the ER.

I grabbed my watch. 4:34am on Thursday morning.  As I pulled on my clothes, I made Will recite his symptoms.  Abdominal pain, slight fever.  He had been sick for the past ten days with a stomach bug, so none of this was too shocking, but he said it's something more serious.  He wasn't flushed or breathing heavy, so I sent him out to start the car while I took Daisy out for a quick pee and stashed her in her crate with food and water.  I didn't know how long we'd be gone. 

I offered to drive, but he insisted he was fine (minus that whole going-to-the-ER thing.)  The streets of a city that closes around 2am always look post-apocalyptic in the wee hours of the morning, and I was shocked at my ability to go from dead asleep to awake, dressed, and hyper-alert in ten minutes.

As you all know by now, Will had an appendectomy that presented some complications, so he was gutted from sternum to bellybutton.  All Post-Apocalyptic Activity was put on hold; the only zombie in my life was me, shuffling between the hospital and home. 

He was sent home Tuesday, and while he's still recuperating, I planned on resuming my workouts and beginning to assemble the next training phase.  I went for a recovery run yesterday, as I hadn't run in nearly a week and was stiff and sore from six days seated in hospital chairs and a diet that consisted of whatever was convenient.  Ten minutes, I thought, but I managed to run twenty-five. 

Pleased, I climbed the stairs into my apartment when I heard him call.

Baby?  Can you come here?

I found him in our bedroom, one hand over his seeping gut.  There was a trail of pinkish fluid that led from the closet to the bed.  He looked scared.  I bent down and looked him in the eye.

Look at me. Are you hurt?

It doesn't hurt, it's just that...all this fluid just burst out, he told me.

I realized that the trail on the floor was actually the arc of the spray that came out of his gut.  Our bedroom looked like the cafeteria from Alien, with Will playing John Hurt.

Okay, okay that's good.  Let's clean you up and call your doctor.  If he says we go to the ER, then we go back.  Okay?

Okay.

I washed and disinfected my hands, then located the First Aid Kit and re-bandaged the wound, talking calmly and firmly the entire time.  I then sat him down and called the doctor's office, who assured us that this happens, and as long as it's not gushing blood, he was okay.

It's not like I had to do this amidst nuclear fallout or zombie breaking in the windows, but as my first test of staying calm and focused in a crisis?  I think I passed.

I'm treating this as a get-back-into-the-swing of things week.  I know I owe a ton of emails and such, so please bear with me.  If I've learned anything from this, it's that you can't plan for everything.

An Administrative Note.

My husband is in the hospital due to an emergency appendectomy that ended up being major surgery.  As he'll be there until Tuesday, I'm spending most of my time there with quick trips home to feed and walk Daisy.  Please bear with me as PAW duties are on hold while wifely duties take over. 

I'll be back next week.

xo!