It seems like my life revolves around food. I think about it, write about it, concoct recipes for enjoying it, talk about it, sometimes dream about it, and of course — eat it!
That’s all fine and good. But it’s bound to catch up with me. Not only the eating, but the sitting — I sit when I eat, I sit when I write. Even cooking isn’t exactly vigorous exercise. In fits and starts I exercise — I had my wii phase, the bellydance phase, the yoga phase. But generally, give me a comfy seat and a cookbook or a movie over self-initiated exercise any day. I don’t really want to focus on an arbitrary number like weight, but I would like to feel like I’m burning off some of the bacon I eat in the name of my craft. And before a trip I always get an urge to “get in shape.” And wouldn’t it be nice to be strong enough to lift my suitcase over my head in the train without hurting for two days?
But I’ve come to know myself well enough to know I need a bit of good old-fashioned arse-kicking. I need an Apollo Creed to unearth my inner Rocky. So, on the same day my story came out on eating Lexington, I’ve signed, maybe not a pact with the devil, but something I suspect I’ll be crying about in a couple days. I’m going to blog for Derby City CrossFit in exchange for them whipping me into shape.
I start my first session Saturday and will be posting weekly about the experience of a lard-loving food writer who hits a hard-core gym. Come along for the ride, and cheer me along — I’ll need the moral support according to my mom who advised I take some Aleve before *and* after my first session.