The Rocky Diaries

In my quest to get as lean and fit as Rocky, I have, on and off over the past 10 years, been a member of one gym or the other. I tried out pilates for a while and yoga, worked out on my own, but nothing seemed to get me into Rocky-worthy shape. Over the past two years, though, I've been working with a personal trainer in an attempt to finally reach my goal fitness level.

Despite the 'rigors' of my workout regime, however, I feel only slightly fit. Although I go a minimum of three times a week, I've never really quite gotten there, for some strange and mysterious reason unbeknownst to me. I do the requisite 30 minutes (sometimes more) of fat burrrrning, followed by either lower or upper body weight training, either with my trainer or alone. I even do over a hundred crunches for the rock hard abs that it appears I will never have. Eye of the Tiger ringing in my ear, I have even tackled the sinister stairmaster, and other such ominous looking machines, all to no avail.

Adding insult to injury is that fact that my gym is full of geriatrics - average age 67 - so I don't even have the excuse of being distracted by hunky fellow members strutting their stuff in front of me. The advantage, however, of going to a gym popular with senior citizens is that for the first (and probably only) time in my life, I'm the hottest girl at the gym. And I don't say this out of conceit - it's easy to claim that title when your stiffest competition is a 90 year old widow. No lie!

I guess I should be a little more honest in revealing my gym-going habits. Challenging routine - check; workout at least four times per week - check; personal trainer - check; workout for at least an hour - check; proper diet - uhmmm, no comment. Okay, so maybe the whole 'perfect body' thing is not working out for me so much because my average gym routine looks something like this:

Please notice gym bag in background!

Can I help it if a Burger King just so happens to be right across the street from my gym? The average person needs some serious Herculean will power to resist stopping in for a Chicken Royale and fries after emerging from an arguably challenging workout absolutely starving to death, which tends to be the case most of the time for me. And every time I drive out of the gym, there it is, in big red letters, just calling out to me, "Take a bite out of me, I promise I won't make you fat." Yeah, right! Stupid burger and fries. The Achilles heel of my fitness program. The thorn in my never-going-to-look-like-a-supermodel side. The 500 calorie obstacle standing in the way of my life-long dream of looking like an Olympic athlete. Yes, those dreams are gone now. And it's all because of you, damn Burger King!

And you want to know the funniest thing of all? I prefer McDonald's.