Here's to Last Chances

Have you ever been told, "Ok, now. This is your LAST chance!"? If you have, then you know the rush of emotions involved with these words.

On my go-to show, The Biggest Loser, there is a little thing called the "Last Chance Workout," wherein Bob and Jillian--the trainers--abuse the poor, defenseless contestants until the fatties look like they cannot possibly take another ounce of torture. These trainers are complete sadists. The evil grins that adorn their faces loom over the pitiful, nearly thin (yet still fat) bodies of the contestants. Every week, I think I would really like to be one of the fatties on that show, except on the day when they are spit-screaming in my face LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE WOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRKOUT!!!!!! I just couldn't fathom what that would be like, but always had a masochistic curiosity.

Guess what!? My trainer, who until I receive his legal approval to use his name will be referred to as Water-Gallon-Man (see my second blog ever for details)...anyhow, he's getting married this weekend. Young love. So sweet. So fragile. So full of wonder. So exciting. I'm so happy for his fiance and him. And I like to think that's why he smiled my whole workout. He will be gone for the next two weeks celebrating his new nuptials, so he--like the first time I encountered him--wanted to be sure to "show me love". Love was just in the air, and people, love was in the form of the most tortuous "Last Chance" I've ever had...

...And I've had a LOT of last chances. Like the time I spray painted our rival school-Lincoln High School-with curse words and paw prints my senior year; I was busted by the police, so I naturally cried "Please don't arrest me; my dad is the preacher at First Baptist Church and I'll be KILLLLLED!!!!" The officer gave me one last chance. I scrubbed paint with paint thinner until my acrylic nails were dripping from my fingers. That was a good last chance. I'll remember that last chance.

Today, I had a "last chance" to get in a heart-pumping, pool-of-sweat-inducing, body numbing workout before my trainer vacations for two weeks. I did five sets of weighted jump squats and lunge series, followed by three dead lift and inverse butt/back/hamstring/everywhere lift sets (these last sets call for their own individual blog, which I don't have time for now). The cherry on top, though, would have to be the three sets of weighted calve raises. Have you ever woken up at night with a pesky cramp in your calve? That's what it felt like, only I couldn't get it to go away. Stretching hurt, sitting hurt, walking hurt...I could find no relief. Desperately looking up at my trainer, I moan "Is this EVER going to go away???" He smiled his sadist grin, pleased at the amount of sweat and sheer pain he'd inflicted.

My muscles have recouped (for now), and I'm sure that tomorrow morning when I wake up and put my dainty little size 10 foot on the floor, my entire lower body will most definitely feel the warmth and pain of Water-Gallon's love...a love that only comes from One Last Chance.

Be sure your sins will find you out...

Tonight, my best friend nudged me to go ahead and write a blog by posting the simple prompt, "Blog?" on my Facebook page. I had been contemplating it, but it's one of those nights where what I have to say is downright shameful--thus downright difficult to post.

All week, I've been writing an incredibly difficult--though rewarding--research paper on the writer Aphra Behn's play, The Rover. For the past five days, I've spent the greater part of my free time at the computer. We're talking HOURS here. Last night, I became so enthralled in my research that I kept reading and digging and reading and digging for information to prove my thesis--when suddenly I realized it was 4:00 (A.M.). This past week, I've cancelled two appointments with my trainer and did not attend any of his boot camp classes (which I usually attend at 5:15 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Ignoring that my brain may need the valuable oxygen that comes from a good cardiovascular cram session, I plugged through book after article after book of interesting facts pertaining to my research. The good news here? I have a reasonably decent thesis for my paper. The bad news? This has wreaked havoc on my normal routine.

In an effort to reunite myself with the world, I went to a local restaurant with my husband for dinner. Following my brother's soon-to-be-doctorly advice, I ordered: the Greek salad with grilled chicken (no red meat); More carbs than brother would like (given the bread and olive oil dip), and an unsweetened ice tea (followed with the diet coke that I couldn't resist). Though I did fairly well on my choices, one thing stood in my way from feeling great about being healthy: Le Desert case.

It is strategically placed just to the right of the counter where you order. Like one of the brothels in the red district of Amsterdam, it houses all sorts of illicit, sinful, flirtatious desserts that call out to me--begging me to indulge myself. Okay, so maybe prostitution is the wrong comparison, but the point here is that these desserts look SO delicious that I felt guilty the moment my eyes grazed their smooth, velvety chocolate frosted curves. I feel dirty just writing about them.

At any rate, I walked away from the case of sin, mostly with the assistance of my husband--who doesn't understand because he doesn't particularly like dessert. If it were a case of chicken wings, he'd be feeling my pain. I make it the whole 45 minutes, enduring my salad and then rushing to the door to avoid eye contact with the dessert case.

We get home, and one would think I was in the safe zone. Except...I just couldn't get that dessert case off my mind. I had to have something sweet. A Fiber One bar or 100-calorie pack of Craisins wasn't going to do the trick. I had to find a way to get out and get something chocolate. Something really, truly sinful. I grab my keys, tell my husband that I'm going to Panera to read, and think about whether to get a cookie or cake from Panera. I pull up to Panera, go in, and realize they've taken most of the desserts out of the case. It was like the police had raided this brothel. There was nothing really left but a few sad bagels, some very dried-up-looking loaves of bread, and trays with doilies showing where the delicious desserts previously reclined.

I turn and head for the door, thinking about where I can now get my chocolate fix. My best guess is Starbucks up the street. I go in, and they have nothing truly chocolate, so I turn and leave again. I head to Publix. I park shockingly close to the front of the store and sulk into the bakery area. I always feel so guilty perusing this area--like a drug junkie seeking a high. I peek at the drug--I mean, dessert--case. I see cheesecake, packs of brownies, cupcakes, and finally...Chocolate Overload Cake. Just to be sure, I look behind me at the other case where there are petit fours, cheesecake, and mini-birthday cakes. I walk back and forth between the two cases twice before the two ladies in the bakery try to help me: "Were you looking for something particular?" they smile. I feel incriminated, and mumble, "What? Oh, me? Naw, I'm good." I go back for the Chocolate Overload cake. Quickly as possible, I snatch it from the case and in one fluid move swagger over to the register, hoping that no one is seeing me make this exchange. I get to the Express Line, and the clerk perkily observes, "OH, MMMM...Chocolate Overload." My head jerks up from looking down at my wallet, and I want to tell her "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...not so loud, someone might hear you." Instead, I smile and pay cash. Then I do the first running I've done all week, right out the door.

I make it home safe and sound, ready to dive into my ecstasy of CHOCOLATE OVERLOAD, when I realize my husband hasn't left for the office yet like he said he was going to. I'm so busted. I make the walk of shame in to my house, casually place my purse and my purchase on the counter--and respond to his surprised remark that I'm home faster than he expected. Without making eye contact, I go get a fork. I can tell he's looking at the Publix bag. When he sees me unveil the chocolate sin, he immediately chastises me for my poor choice. I yell. He yells. I yell again. I retreat to the office to write this blog, which I already know is going to be about my transgressions. He comes to kiss me before he leaves for his late-night session with Lady Law, and I settle in with French music playing in the background.

My menag a trois with Chocolate cake and Diet Coke ensues. It's sin. Truly.