This photo is a bit wonky because a certain hand-model kept trying “animate” Dear Jillian while a certain photographer tried not to laugh. He may not get hired again for future shoots and you know there is more coming—uh, because you know what they say, “have personal trainer finger-puppet will blog.” People say that. Right?
Thoughts and Observations on doing the 30 Day Shred.
Day One: If I die in the next 30 days, please tell the Authorities, “Jillian Michaels did it”.
Day Two: Dear Jillian, my fat hurts. Thank you for that.
Day Three: Dear Jillian, I’m irrational—but you scare me. I’m pretty sure if I look directly into your eyes I’m going to turn to stone. That would make you Medusa and me crazy.
Day Four: Dear Jillian, Your lips are moving but I can’t hear a word you’re saying! Â (Oh the joys of a mute button and an ipod. “I started nothing, I wish I didn’t!“)
Day Five: Dear Jillian, F*&% jumping jacks.
Day Six: Dear Jillian, Â Why didn’t you warn me that I could bounce right out of my jog bra? My walls were embarrassed for me.
Day Seven: Dear Jillian, Black is not my color. I want on the blue team.
Day Eight: Dear Jillian, I’ve been brainstorming some ways to make your exercise  video more marketable.  I think you should have a pudgy, out-of-shape, forty-something in the background huffing and puffing and occasionally swearing at you behind your back. Realism sells. Just look at that show, “The Biggest Loser.”  No, I’m not volunteering. I can swear at you to your face in my front room. Just sayin’.
Day Nine: Dear Jillian, I’ve changed my mind. I think I’d rather look at Jason Statham.
Day Ten: Dear Jillian, I got up early today to do your stoopid video so I could sneak off to Portland. I’m going to eat a cheeseburger and think of you.
Day Eleven: Walter Tango Foxtrot (I just moved up to level Two. It’s not pretty.) what did I ever do to deserve  you? Oh, right, that cheeseburger yesterday.
Day Twelve: Dear Jillian, talk to the hand. Dear Knees, please don’t give up, blow out, or cave in before day 30. If you do, the bad woman wins.
Day Thirteen:  Somehow, it’s easier to get through a work-out with a full gospel choir singing back-up.
Day Fourteen: Dear Jillian, I think I’d pay  big money to see you face-plant into a huge box of chocolate. Yum, yum.
Day Fifteen: Dear Jillian, Half way today. That’s all I’ve got. What do you mean I need to write more? Keep going? I’m not working hard enough at this? What’s that? I. Can’t. Hear. You.
Day Sixteen: Dear Jillian, You know how they say you can do anything for 30 days? Well, they lied.
Day Seventeen: Dear Jillian, Why do you keep repeating yourself? And how come you never change your clothes?
This diatribe, er, faithful chronicle has been interrupted by a nasty head-cold. The author is busy extricating the nasty rhino-virus that has taken up residency in her upper respiratory track. This broadcast will continue upon the eradication  of said virus and when her daily consumption of kleenex no longer equals the death of a small forest. Please stay tuned. The snarkiness will resume.
Day Eighteen: Dear Jillian, So! I missed a whole week due to a nasty cold and you didn’t even miss me! Â You could have sent flowers, you know. (And note to all you keeping track: I’m going to keep at this until I’ve done 30 work-outs. It seemed better than starting all over.)
Day Nineteen: This is me waving a white flag. Between the virus, which I’ve still not completely kicked, and a knee injury (yep, it finally gave out!) I’m calling it quits to doing this work-out every day. I’ve decided to scale back to 4 times a week while I let my body heal.
I’ve decided to put these observations in a post and take down the page. And I’ll have an update on my “weight-loss” progress in a few days.
Just one of the many reasons I love this man; he brings me flowers when I’m sick.
I think one of the reasons I feel like I’m on this blog more than I am, is that I’m here daily updating “Dear Jillian.” It’s not much; somedays that’s all I’ve got.
I wish I could say the 30 day shred is going gloriously well. But, it’s not. I came to terms a while ago with the fact that I lose weight slowly. And that I’m piteously out of shape. But it’s come as a cold shock to discover that I’m not the graceful ballerina who pirouettes effortlessly in my head. Color me delusional.  In fact, I’m kinda clumsy. It’s embarrassing. It’s “sad girl tries out for So You Think You Can Dance” cringe-worthy embarrassing.
Good thing I work out alone in my living room. Although, I still don’t understand why my desk dancing at my computer doesn’t yield more results.
Anyhow, I feel like this part of my life is just an endless treadmill. You get up, you get down, and you try it again. And I can’t help but hear the Hives, “Doo Wacko! They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.” Â Exercise has to be the exception to the bon mot. Right?
It better be!
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I wrote this piece last week right before I succumbed to this ridiculous head cold. I’ve been too out of it since then to even contemplate publishing it—my luck, I would have erased my entire blog due to my cold-medicine haze. To avoid such a catastrophe, I waited until today to post it.
I’m slowly coming around and  I think I’ll be back in the groove of things in another day or so. Until then, I’ll be on the couch watching re-runs of “Everybody Loves Raymond” because I’ve run out of library books. Shh, don’t tell Jillian.
