Baby, I’m Going to Get Ripped

Spring is upon is! Birds are singing, flowers are blooming and people across this great nation are trying on bathing suits and sighing in disgust at their reflection in the mirror.

My husband included.

Let me give you a mental picture of my better other half. He is 6'5, 220 pounds and 33 million cheeseburgers away from being overweight. As a matter of fact, I think he’s a kind of fly for a 32-year-old father of two.

However, no matter how perfect I think Hubs is, he likes to drone on about how he wants to get “ripped”. In a heterosexual way, he will nod at some built guy in top notch shape and say, "Do you see how big that dude is? He is ripped."

When I think of ripped, I think of someone intoxicated to the point of dancing in a Dr. Seuss hat with glow sticks or I think of those big muscled gorilla juice heads on Jersey Shore. I am not attracted to either, so I am kind of scared of this ripping that Hubs wants to possess.

Warning: You will see the word "ripped" multiple times in this post. My apologies.

"I'm going to start working out in May."

This is my husband's famous line.

It is always May. I assume this seems like a good time to start a regimen since summer is right around the corner and he wants to be all sexy-fied in his swim trunks. Come to think of it, he vows to do a lot of stuff in May- balance the budget, pay off something or buy something with the money he's saved by balancing the budget or paying off something. May is like Chinese New Year for southern white boys.

One night last May, Hubs decided to kill a six pack and watch television. He got sucked into a P90X infomercial. Of course he did. He was half lit, it was May, and P90X promises a damn good rippin'. I can see why he was mesmerized.

When I woke the next day, he told me about his purchase. Since I am incredibly cheap, my first concern was the cost. He didn't disclose the full price, but whatever the cost, it was worth it because, "Baby, I'm going to get ripped." When I checked the online bank statement and I discovered the full price for the P90X program, I realized that the only thing that had been ripped was our checking account.

My husband was as giddy as Tammy Faye Bakker at a Maybelline convention when the box of crap arrived-43 DVDs, an eight gallon jug of Whey Protein Powder, and a cook book that contained recipes with ingredients like turmeric. I am from Tennessee. I don't cook with turmeric. Ever.

Our first instruction was to take his "before" measurements. After the kids were in bed, I walked into the bedroom to see him standing half-naked holding my grandmother's measuring tape. At first sight I wanted no part of it, but I was told that I must take the measurements.

So I started with his neck, arms, chest, etc, and then he said I had to measure his inner thigh. He offered to remove his boxers because men are putrid perverted animals. If his woman is wrapping a slinky measuring tape around his limbs, he automatically assumes other things will take place. After I punched him in the stomach, I finished the measurements. Boxers in tact. 

Then I had to take "before" photos. He was flexing and doing weird things, all the while boasting about how ripped he was going to get. Of course I was making fun of him. "Keep making fun. I'm going to get ripped."  The pictures got taken. Boxers in tact.

The night of the first work out was upon us. After watching the DVD for a measly three minutes, I  had broken a sweat. It looked hard, so I went downstairs to eat a Little Debbie and watch Dawson’s Creek reruns.

He hung in there and was seriously pumped after the first workout. We had to go to Dick's Sporting Goods and purchase a plethora of crap to add to his regimen-dumbbells, barbells, yoga mats, some scary looking contraption that bolts to the door frame for pull ups. He was running around like a Schnauzer at Petco- tongue hanging out, peeing on the floor. He was determined to buy anything that would help him get ripped.

P90X ripped through our checking account again.

On day seven of the work out, I heard the most God-awful groan coming down the stairs. It sounded as if my dead grandpa had risen from the grave, jogged 30 miles to my house, scaled the roof, somersaulted through the window and crept down the steps-all while still dead, mind you. It was a tormented noise.

I looked to see Hubs gripping the bannister and sliding down the stairway. Not walking-sliding. His legs were hot jelly.

Let me make it clear that my husband is no weakling. I have seen him carry an old-school lead- filled, 32 inch rear projection television up those stairs...with ease. It wasn't as if he had just done the Richard Simmons "Dance Your Pants Off" workout on VHS. He'd just tackled day seven of P90X, and he was sliding down the stairs. He had been defeated. 

Before I could ask him if he was okay, he floated past me, went to the toilet and vomited. 

P90X had become P07X. Seven days. Seven.

I came across the box full of P90X garbage a few weeks ago.

"Can I give this junk to Goodwill?" I shouted down the stairs.

"No. I'm going to start working out in May." 

And the cycle continues.