Repost: Motivate Yourself to Work Out in 5 Easy Steps

Oh, it makes me giggle to see how far I’ve come. I wrote this one year ago, before I’d ever dreamt of running. Now, well, It seems I’ve become a gym rat. The horror! Enjoy these 5 workout tips, from a former no-worker-outer. ūüôā

Me no work out. And when I do, it must be short. Fifteen minutes max. There’s no point in buying me a gym membership because I won’t go. If I can’t work out in my pyjamas in my living room, well, it ain’t gonna happen because I ain’t doing my beached whale moves/crunches where any skinny gym rats can see me.

Science has proven that wearing something made by Lululemon causes you to burn 25% more calories

Nevertheless, I’ve worked out for two months straight now, because I have my motivation strategy all worked out. And now, you can be motivated too! Here are five steps to motivation:

1. Tell Yourself How Good it is For You

You’ll sleep better, you’ll have better
circulation. It’ll clear the mental fog–but most of all, it will keep you limber. And for me, being able to finally sit cross-legged is a big deal.

Not kidding.

That failing, move to:

2. Stand in Front of a Mirror–In Your Underwear

First, flex your muscles and admire the biceps you have developed. Second, squeeze the jelly roll around your middle. Those reverse crunches? Oh yeah, it’ll be gone.

But if that doesn’t work.

3. Kick Your Own Butt

I say to myself “Who’s the boss? Who’s the boss?”

**meekly** “I am.”

“Then get out there!”

I’ve got my game face on.

But if you’re still on the couch, try:

4. Promise Yourself Something

If I work out four times this week I’ll:

Eat chips.


Buy the next book in The Mortal Instruments series. Ding Ding Ding!

But, if you cannot possibly bring yourself to do a squat, lunge or a step on the treadmill, there is one last maneuver you can try.

5. Watch Extreme Makeover: Weightloss Edition

If this doesn’t scare you into your workout gear, at very least it will inspire you. They always look so beautiful at the end, and they have so much confidence!

That’s all we want, right?

Friends, I’m a royal wimp when it comes to working out, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that doing what you said you would does wonders for the mind, body and soul.

So put on the sweats. Tie back the hair. Off the couch in three, two, one… go!


Sexiest Man Dead?

People Magazine recently crowned Chris Hemsworth the “Sexiest Man Alive.” I can’t deny that the magazine is hitting nearer the mark than usual. ¬†But ‘sexiest alive’? ¬†That’s a pretty sweeping statement.

He was alive last year, right?  What was wrong with him then?

Adam Levine was last years Sexiest Man Alive, and though he was rumoured to be dead, he is still alive and making generic pop music. ¬†What’s wrong with him now?

In fact, if you peruse the list of Sexiest Men Alive from 1985 to 2013, you’ll see that darn near all of them are still alive. ¬†What happened? ¬†Did they gain weight? ¬†Get a bad haircut? ¬†Publicly announce that they hate kittens? ¬†It doesn’t matter. ¬†They’ve lost their mojo. ¬†They’ve lost their crown. ¬†What a demotion that must be. ¬†One day you are the sexiest man in the world, the next… pfft. ¬†You’re just a guy on the street.

Exactly how do they decide anyway? ¬†Do they fill out questionnaires? ¬†Have a swimsuit contest? ¬†Compare bank statements? ¬†I don’t follow their logic.

I propose a sensible solution to both quandaries.  Kill the old sexiest man and instate a new one.  Decide by good, old fashioned duel.  The winner takes the title, and the loser is the Sexiest Man Dead.  Imagine the spectacle, the press coverage, the wailing of women.

Oh wait!  I have a better plan. The newly crowned Sexiest Man Alive goes into hiding, and all eligible candidates have a year to hunt him down and assassinate him.  Winner takes all.

That sounds like the Hunger Games, you say?

We’ll call it… the Handsome Games.



My Life as a Zoo Animal

This must be what it feels like to be a bear in a zoo, or an ape or something.

A group of gaping tourists stand outside my doors, goggling through the big windows. A lady in a white lab-coat waves her hands and says: “Observe, a female of the species ‘Coateris Pharmeceuticalis’.”


So I make sure I’m doing something ‘coater-like’–i.e. looking over my paperwork. But as soon as they’ve passed by, I return to my original posture–slumped in my chair, deep in thought, or with my nose pressed up against the window of the coating pan, watching the guns spray, lulled into a stupor by the soothing sounds of, say, two industrial mixers running full tilt!

(Coateris pharmaceuticalis have been observed with peculiar bits of chartreuse foam in their ears. It is suspected this is to dull the noise of the roaring mixers)

I spend many a day in a box-shaped room, alone. My companions are a huge machine called a coating pan, tanks, mixers, and various other implements I need to do my job. But most of the time I don’t use them. The pan runs on it’s own, and I just take readings every quarter-hour.

So I pace: round and round and round. Every now and again, my zoo-keeper/supervisor will stick his head in and ask if I need something.

Coffee. I need coffee.

No coffee for coateris pharmaceuticalis!


I’ve considered bringing more of my life into the coating room. Back in the day I’d write blog posts on paper towels, but I found out this was strictly verboten and was forced to cease and desist. They can’t stop me from composing them mentally, though, along with grocery lists, to-do lists, menu plans–heck, even monthly budgets.

I also thought about working out while the pan was running (after all you can do squats anywhere). But the thought of being observed by a troop of people in white lab-coats while performing a set of lunges was a bit too far to stretch my imagination.

Pacing it is.

The good news is that I have plenty of time to contemplate the deep mysteries of life–like, if I was a zoo animal, what animal would I be?

After much thought, I decided I was an ape because I could totally see an ape (in blue scrubs) doing my job (while whistling).


The difficulty would be the hairnet…

I know there is life outside the process room, and if some ninja-penguins or PETA activists would just bust me out, I’d see it. So tell me: what zoo animal are you, and what does your habitat look like? Then when I’m stuck pacing in mine I’ll have something to think about.

And how do I get them to bring me coffee?

Roll Up the Rim is Gambling! (A True Theological Dilemma)

I’m on such a losing streak. I’ve yet to win anything in Roll up the Rim. Nothing, not even a donut. This year each cup even has two rolls on it and I’m still skunked.


But I roll anyway, because I remember The Streak. It was a college kid’s dream. I rolled a rim and won a coffee, which won another coffee, which won another coffee, which won another. Tim Hortons didn’t make any money on me that year, oh no. Never mind that I was only buying coffee there because it was Roll up the Rim…

The other day, my sister and I had a perfectly serious conversation about what we would do if we won the car (sell it), and this morning as I pulled into the drive-through, I said “Oh Lord, if I could only win something big…”

It dawned on me this morning, as I rolled out of the drive-through, that this Roll up the Rim thing may be… it might be **whispers** gambling.


You don’t say. A good Mennonite? Gambling?

Well, if you think about it, a cup of coffee is almost the same price as a bet at the local horse races (that place of sin and debauchery).

What is a Mennonite to do? Maybe I need help. Maybe I should buy coffee exclusively at McDonalds where I am at least guaranteed a sticker for my rewards card–a return on my investment. Perhaps that would be better stewardship of my God-given resources.

Or maybe buying coffee at Tim's is too worldly all together! Never mind that NOT going to Timmies makes me un-Canadian or something. Mennonites don't really do the patriotism thing. Everyone knows that.

Well, if I ever win the car, I will tithe once I sell it. I promise. That makes it okay, right? Right?

I hope my good Mennonite friends will recognize satire when they see it ūüôā

An Ode to Strawberry, My Little Car

Oh, Strawberry. Was there ever a car more loved than thee?

You, my long awaited wheels–whom I searched for like a precious jewel, and when I found you, named you on sight.

You, though you have no majesty to recommend you. Who can only boast that you are “good on gas” and “cute” and maybe “red–very red.”

You, who have no power locks or windows. Who boasts a mediocre stereo. Who handles like a gutless go-cart, and whose short wheel-base makes winter driving a terror.

You, whom I toil so hard to maintain, taking up a full quarter of my salary to own, the sole reason I work two jobs. Whom I shall soon ransom from the bank.

Still, I wish thee a cheery ‘good night’ every evening. I bid you ‘be good’ when I leave you in the parking lot, and ‘good evening’ when I emerge from the factory. I feed you with the finest regular unleaded gasoline, and plug you in to keep you warm, though it cost me dearly.

I must love you truly.