As posted from LivingInCin
I’ve dabbled in various motivators over time. Visuals. Music. Turns out I just needed a little faith in myself, and the soreness of unknown muscles brought about by the absurd resistance Pilates puts onto your body. Tree. Swan. Midlines. The assortment of unique equipment leaves me wondering if it was plucked from an 18th century designer torture chamber from a castle somewhere along the hills of Vendée. My motivator is now simply proving I can do it, more so than anything else. So this core is spoken for, now what of the rest of my routine?
Cincy has some of the most absurd landscapes I have personally lived in. Philly is dirty and dingy and odds are, the view from your bedroom window leaves you feeling something similar to aversion/conversion therapy from Dr. Oliver Thredson. The shore, well, I took it for granted. The shore has a beautiful serenity. A different serenity. But no, Ohio is grand. The sun creates beautiful paths slicing through mountains and rivers. Looking out at them I actually have the urge, no, need, to run. To chase the creeping nature like a child in a field. I felt young again. Alive. Well, my shins and chest and knees…all reminded me that I am not a child. Anymore. But, I am getting stronger. The weight is slowly slinking off. I eat slightly, better. No breads, little dairy, lots of beef, greens and beans. I have become conscious of what I intake, and my colon has responded in kind. Now, what I have not given up, is beer.
Between all the beerfests, beer weeks, beer-ness that is this lovely Losantaville, I simply cannot ignore the lovely nectar that Ben Franklin himself lived on daily. And if that wisecracking, pudgy, problem solver can throw it back and still get the ladies, then by God I can figure it out too. Now, craft beers have a high carb/calorie count. I could go into a symantic breakdown of what is better for you, more shit beer, or less craft beers. We could philosophize to no end about such a thing. Truth is I go by the “clear liquid” theory on most nights out. But there is one fabulous moment that I look forward too after an hour of Pilates, and a 3 mile sprint. The glorious cold wash down my throat brought about by pounding a cheap ass beer. Cheep ass beer, as defined by anything that comes in packs of 30 for under $10, is gloriously drinkable. Unlike a fine craft where you want to savor the roasted hops, regional barleys or nods of fruits, cheap ass bee (aka shit beer, cat piss, natty or the like) gives you the thirst quenching pleasure of water, with the devilish back-of-the-mind-snickering-like-a-schoolboy-that-got-away-with-cheating-on-trig feeling of downing a cold one after just putting your body through hell so that all the little lines apear between your muscles before June hits and your now redneckified ass is going to be floating, on a boat in a lake, with all the other highly attractive people of Ohio.
So damn you Ohio. Damn you for being so attractive, and giving me my little Sunlight Complex. And thank you. Now, throw me a Hudy.