So I went to the gym today, and I was expecting a mob scene. You know how it works: People make all kinds of resolutions to join a gym or get in shape or lose 20 pounds and give it their best shot for two weeks, and it really cramps my style when they hog all the machines at my club in the process.

The guy I saw managed to dislocate something and get his foot up over his head.

However, perhaps due to ye olde econonomy, things were pretty normal. I did see a number of folks on sales tours, but all in all it was a typical Saturday morning with the usual suspects (Old Chinese guy who does everything at triple speed, Anthony Hopkins doppleganger, my friend and chiropractor who is a serious gym rat, etc. etc.).

So status quo except for a few weird ass things going on that I have to tell you about. In fact, the silver lining of the whole experience was the happy realization that “Houston, we have blog material…”

So without further ado: I was sitting there quietly working on my triceps in a most lady-like and human fashion, and to what to my wondering eyes should appear but this woman crawling along the floor in what could only be a reenactment of the stages of evolution. Seriously. It was whacked.

Upon closer examination, she was apparently executing a push-up going into a lunge going into a push-up, a la “the crawl of a dying gila monster” back and forth across the room, and I felt embarrassed just looking at her. She must have been at it for hours, too, because I saw her more than once as I mixed in the biceps and triceps machines that line that section of the gym. She would come in the corner of my peripheral vision, and I would think “What is that!?!?” (being unaccustomed to large objects lumbering around on the ground at the gym), and thar she blows. Back and forth in the open area between the weights and exercise bikes, performing her strange one-woman show for all 50 people in the cardio areas’ enjoyment.

I’m certain if she saw videotape she would never do that in public again.

Oh, my stars. See what I'm saying? Is this really necessary?

Anyway, in an effort to avert my eyes, I looked away in the direction of the basketball court wherein I happened to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be a foot sitting atop a head. I squinted and yes, there was a guy with a stretch band tied around his ankle, yanking his foot over his skull and toward his stomach.

I don’t know who advised this or how it’s a good idea, but what does a stretch band cost? Five dollars? Less? Don’t these people know that they can do this weird stuff at home? The slithering crawler lady would be better off at home where at least the germs all over the floor are hers.

I, for one, perform all odd-looking or awkwardly posed activities (i.e. everything abdominal and all squat-based or lunge-related behavior) behind closed doors. We’re all better off that way.

In other news, I attempted to watch the movie Julie and Julia last night. I had heard good things about it from everyone from girlfriends to male friends to my male dermatologist, probably because I have a blog…although not one with a book deal. (Note to self: GET A GODDAMNED GIMMICK ALREADY!!!)

Anyway, it’s still sitting in the DVD player half-watched because – and I don’t mean to sound like a prude here – but I was getting unnerved by all the suggestions of Julia Child’s ardent sex life. I mean, it’s JULIA CHILD already. She kind of looks like Susan Boyle. And she talks all weird (what WAS that? She was American, right?), and I really don’t want to see her rolling around in bed – again and again and again – with Stanley Tucci.

I have to imagine the real Mr. Child was not nearly so good-looking as Stanley Tucci, and I will never ever ever Google an image to find out. What I’m already picturing with his beloved wife is bad enough.

Oh dammit!!!

I just did it.

Why do I do this to myself?

It’s horrible folks.

It’s worse than I imagined…

He’s a little tiny old man and she’s gigantic. Oh baby.

God bless 'em. I'm glad they were happy. I just don't need to see footage (real or recreated) of them in bed.

So where was I?

Oh, yes, Julia made some comment about “It’s like a stiff cock!” and admittedly I wasn’t looking at the screen and maybe she was talking about a dead rooster or something, but I don’t care. That was it for me. Movie off.

I think it’s just that there’s some people where it’s better if they keep it to themselves.

If I went to a movie called Maddy and Madonna all about how 30-something Madelieine is hoping to learn the entire Madonna songbook on the ukulele and inter-spliced with scenes from the now-deceased Madonna’s life, I would expect a fair amount of sex. We all remember the “Truth or Dare” years and the cone bra and Sean Penn and Dennis Rodman and David Blaine and the father of Lourdes and Guy Ritchie and allegedly Sandra Bernhardt and on and on and on…

It’s to be expected.

I wouldn’t be shocked or put off or creeped out.

But 6′2″ weird-talking linebacker Julia Child and her tiny Mr. Magoo husband? I don’t wanna know.

Just talk to me about butter and pastry and keep it clean.

So about ten years ago I joined a gym and part of the introductory package was that they insisted on weighing and measuring you and helping you define a ‘plan.’ Probably they were just trying to sell sessions with a trainer, but I wasn’t sophisticated enough at the time to realize that.

Madonna should really eat a cheeseburger or something.

Anyway, I was already a runner and regularly did yoga and pilates videos, so I fared pretty well in my little fitness exam.

Or at least I thought so.

At the end of the exam, the young idiot doing the evaluation shows me a little card where he’s written my weight and BMI. It was some useless record that they apparently stuck in a file somewhere. He points out a couple blank areas in the official archival log and asks me, “So what’s your goal?”

Seeing as I came in at the low end of the weight and body fat ranges for my height, and I was already  in good shape, I told him that my goal was to stay the same.

“That’s not a goal.”

“Yes it is.”

“No. Staying the same is not a goal.”

“For me it is.”

“You need to give me a real goal. That’s not a goal.”

“Well, what are you suggesting? That my goal should be to be underweight? Mistaken for an Olsen twin? Hospitalized for anorexia?”

The Bodies exhibit...or a malnourished, over-exercised celebrity? Who knows anymore.

Truth be told, I probably wasn’t that rude with him. Or rude at all. I think I was humorously annoyed more than anything. Nonetheless, I do recall that I blew off my ‘free training’ session as I henceforth deemed him too much of a jackass to waste another half an hour with. On the other hand, if I had stuck with Mr. That Is Not A Goal, perhaps I’d have Linda Hamilton T2 biceps now? Or the scary skinny arms of Madonna? Or the emaciated body of Victoria Beckham?

Who knows? Who cares?

Anywho, my point was more that some of my “goals” or “resolutions” for 2010 would probably be deemed ‘not goals’ by that guy in the sense that I already do them, but to me, they’re still resolutions. It’s hard work being me, so I say ‘maintain’ IS a goal. Prove that it isn’t.

With that stated, here they are:

1. Work out every day

2. Meditate daily

3. Find an agent and get my book published

4. Write and edit another book

5. Sell house and move out of Washington

6. Practice guitar weekly

7. Be grateful

8. Explore India for six or eight weeks

J. Lo is not scary skinny, but she does look a bit...intense. Just some wholesome, family-friendly entertainment!

9. Go to a yoga class weekly

10. Find a way to make some money with the blog

11. Read books more, watch TV less

12. Trust my instincts

13. Teach Dozer to roll over, take a bow, play dead, whisper, and smile. This may be the hardest thing on this list, as it involves someone else.

14. Teach orphans or do other volunteer work in Tanzania for a few weeks (and maybe take a stab at Kilimanjaro while I’m there.)

15. Make money! (By any means necessary…including a return to my old career if it comes down to it.)

Let the onslaught of ads for wacky weight loss programs and gimmicky equipment begin!

As I was preparing my black-eyed peas and collard greens, I flipped on the TV to keep me company. In the spirit of new year’s resolutions, Bravo is airing nothing but back-to-back episodes of “The Biggest Loser” today. During the three minutes I had it on, they managed to air ads for Winsor Pilates, Bowflex, and the product that inspired this post – Flirty Girl Fitness.

Basically, ‘Flirty Girl’ is just a toned-down name for ‘Stripper-esque’. I really don’t get this ‘bump and grind your way to fitness’ craze. Maybe that’s because I am totally uncoordinated and have absolutely no rhythm. In high school we were forced to take aerobics, and I was a train wreck. I’d finally catch onto one complex choreographed move, and it’d change to something else I couldn’t follow.

Happily, I can run (and I like to), and Tamilee Webb (the “Buns of Steel” lady) takes care of the rest. However, if I were in need of a new workout routine, I’m not sure the Flirty Girl ho bag ‘chair dance’ routine would do it for me. I think I’d feel like an idiot conducting a lap dance in my basement. Moreover, it looks like the program requires a stripper pole, and I just had mine de-installed to make room for the gladiator pit.

Anyway, at this point I ran out of things to say, so I went online to see if there were other workouts as ludicrous as the Flirty Girl DVDs to inspire me, and I ended up running across the P90x program. Have you seen this infomercial? I saw it about a year and a half ago – maybe even two years ago – and I STILL remember it. It was strangely compelling. Probably because I have fantasies of my arms looking like Linda Hamilton in T2.

However, nature is not on my side there. I have the arms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex – weak and worthless. Thus, although I am confident that the rest of me is up to the challenge, I’m not so sure I can get through the P90x workout. It’s 90 days. An hour to an hour and a half a day. You need to already be a regular exerciser and within 5 pounds of your ideal weight. The reviews describe it as the real deal…and grueling. I was trying to find something I’d seen about a professional athelete who did the program, and instead came up with blog of some guy named Chris Cooley? Apparently an NFL (Redskins?) player, and he looks youngish, albeit a bit doughy. Probably not within 5 pounds of his ideal weight. Anyway, from a blog just two weeks ago he writes, “Since beginning P90X 10 days ago I have come to realize it is way more than I expected. I am just as or more sore than I was after 2-a-day football practices.”

Presumably they work those guys hard, so in a way that’s an intimidating statement. Nonetheless, I’m still digging it. I’m in.

The issue is that you have to buy a pull-up bar.

I don’t think I’ve done a real pull-up in my entire life. I remember in high school if you could do 10, you got an automatic “A” in gym class. The Civil Air Patrol girl who joined the 82^nd airborne division weeks after graduation did three. The rest of us didn’t even come close. I’ve used the machine at the gym that offsets your weight, but I always set it up to offset at least 30% of my weight. That’s not really the same thing.

Nonetheless, I admit it: I’m freaking intrigued. There’s some part of me that likes things a little bit hard core. Now I just have to decide if I and my wallet are $120 + shipping and handling + cost of a pull up bar hard core…