Bodybuilding Mirrors All of Life

A Day in the Life . . .

I promise that I haven't been abducted by aliens, fallen off of the face of the planet, or become hopelessly addicted to purse and make-up parties! 

For those of you who are wondering, here's what I've been up to lately: Training hard core, trying to keep up with my clients' ever-changing holiday schedules, running extra class sessions, playing fantasy football (for those of you who care, I am indeed in the FINALS.  If I secure a win this week, then I become the reigning champion), trying to decide whether or not I want to compete in 2009 (and whether or not I have the time to dedicate) and most importantly, visiting with my mother.

When I am not doing all of this, I've been working on a really cool project for one of my AWESOME clients.  And, when I put the finishing touches on the written portion of it, I will post it right here for all of you to enjoy! 

So, don't anyone worry about me now.  I am hanging in there and I will be back to blogging again real soon!

Until then . . . TRAIN, TRAIN, TRAIN and TRAIN SOME MORE!!!

All I Really Need to Know I DID NOT Learn in Kindergarten . . . Apparently

Life is just grand in so many ways.  For instance, if you really pay close attention, you can learn something new about yourself every single day.  Some things are good.  Some things are not so good.  And some things you probably would be better off not knowing at all.

This past Sunday morning, I was visiting with my little sister and my oldest nephew.  As I waited for the coffee to brew, I watched my nephew paint colorful pictures and engaged in idle conversation with my little sister.  We talked about the holidays, took a little jaunt down memory lane and then she told me something about myself to which I was not privy.  I haven't a clue how this particular subject came up but we began discussing children and the development of fine motor skills. (I suppose that these are the things that you would discuss with a PhD candidate in Neuropsychology.)  At first, we talked generally.  Watching my nephew diligently toil with his paints and brushes, we discussed how children's brains develop and how they learn to do such things like color inside of the lines, cut things out, write the letters of the alphabet, etc. etc.  It was a very nice conversation until my little sister, almost a full-fledged PhD in Neuropsychology, advised that when I was five years old, my kindergarten teacher suggested that my mother have me "tested" to find out whether I had some type of "fine motor skill" developmental disability.   

Yes, you read that right.  Evidently, I couldn't seem to make a proper paper fan which raised a red flag with my kindergarten teacher.  From what I understand, the accordion fan that I produced was not quite up to snuff; the folds were not identical rendering a substandard final product.  From what my little sister told me, my fans apparently sucked big time.  So, I asked her for some more information.  Certainly the testing that I underwent firmly established that I did not suffer from any sort of disability.  She hesitated, and then told me that I was tested not once but twice; TWICE!?!  The first test was inconclusive. INCONCLUSIVE?!?  What the hell did THAT mean?  I pressed her for the whole story.  Grinning from ear to ear and struggling not to laugh out loud she went ahead and filled me in.  When she was all through, she was flabbergasted that mom would keep such important information secret.  Feeling mildly upset, I decided to confirm this with my mother.  I mean, it's not every day that you discover that your inability to create a paper fan thirty-four years ago had people wondering whether your development was majorly stunted all before you get to enjoy your very first sip of hot coffee on a fine Sunday morning!

We went to visit my mother.  As most of you know, she is currently in the hospital awaiting a partial hip replacement.  Respecting her current situation, I asked her all of the important questions that you would normally ask one in the hospital anticipating surgery.  I inquired whether she had a good night's rest, whether she had any unbearable pain, how she was generally feeling, what she ate for breakfast and most importantly, whether my kindergarten teacher thought that I was fucked up because I couldn't pleat paper in uniform increments to make a stupid fan.  Sure enough she confirmed my little sister's account . . . with one tiny, minor modification. 

It was true that I could not make a fan out of a piece of paper to save my ass and was tested as a result.  It was also true that I was tested on two separate occasions.  However, it was not true that one of the tests were inconclusive . . .  they BOTH were!  I learned that because I miserably failed at fan making the teacher wanted me tested yet a THIRD time and it was my mother who told them that there would be NO MORE tests done on me.  She told my teacher that I didn't have a problem learning but she rather had a problem teaching.  And that was the end of the testing.  So, what I discovered about myself was that we really don't know whether I was slow to develop my fine motor skills; not because I blew all of the tests clear out of the water but rather because my mother didn't continue with the testing to get a conclusive answer!  Very nice mom, thanks! 

I thought about this for the better part of our visit.  Honestly, I was stewing about it and finding myself getting a little bit pissed off at my kindergarten teacher.  Trying to placate me, my mother said that I was just fine and that the teacher was the one with the problem.  She also shared that this teacher didn't particularly like me.  Oh great . . . so not only was I slow, I was also unlikeable.  Sweet. 

At the end of the day, I had a wonderful visit with my mother and decided that I hated my kindergarten teacher and her unnatural obsession with my paper fan making abilities.  I mean who needs to know how to make a paper fan anyway?  It has absolutely no utility.  If you're hot, find a fucking air-conditioner.

Now that I've had some time to properly digest this information, I decided to ease my kindergarten teacher's mind with regard to my development.  In the event that she just so happens to find this blog and just so happens to stumble upon this particular entry, here's what I have to say to her: 

I'm not sure whether my fine motor skills ever completely ripened but I think that what I lacked in that area, I well made up for in the gross motor, non-verbal communication department:

 

Impressed?

Zzzzzzzzzzzz

  Every now and again, I do some incredibly idiotic things.  But this latest one -- it's far and away the show-stopper.

When the seasons change and the barometric pressure drops, my sinuses feel like they're going to explode.  I experience constant pressure in my head, my entire face feels swollen, I have a terrible headache, my nose runs and I am continuously clearing my throat.  I've dealt with this for years.  So, when that time of year rolls back around, I make sure that I get some over-the-counter sinus medication which usually takes care of it.

Rite Aid's "Sinus, Congestion & Pain Daytime, Non-Drowsy Formula" is my drug of choice.  They are two oblong-shaped, pale-green pills and work like a charm; all of my symptoms magically disappear.  I love the stuff.

Except this time, they didn't work.  Even though I took the medication for a couple of days my headache persisted, the pressure in my head mounted, my throat was killing me and with all of the postnasal drip, I started to lose my voice.  But that wasn't the worst of it.  I was literally exhausted.  I know that I run a very demanding schedule but I was experiencing an out-of-the- ordinary, nagging, bone-gnawing kind of tired that simply would not subside. I felt like I was constantly walking through a thick fog in cement shoes.  Doing the simplest of tasks proved quite a chore.  Eating oatmeal made me tired.  Walking out to my car in the morning wore me out.  Keeping a thought in my head was challenging and carrying on a coherent conversation was literally impossible.    

And I tried everything to shake it.  I drank gallons of coffee, I consumed pre-workout energy drinks, I dragged myself out onto the workout floor and trained like a maniac, I submerged my head in cold water but NOTHING worked.  After all of this, I still felt like at any given moment, I could of laid down smack in the middle of a busy intersection and fell asleep.  Something was terribly wrong.

Just to be sure that I was sufficiently sick, I decided to wait one more day before paying my doctor a visit.  I am the type of person who would rather wait for divine intervention or death before going to the doctor.  Drives people crazy.  Anyway, I got up in the morning, took my sinus medication (just in case it was helping a little bit) and somehow managed to get myself to the gym.  About a half of an hour after getting there, that pervasive tiredness returned and wore on me all morning long.  My limbs felt heavy, I was knocking into equipment and I had to really focus to keep myself upright.  I couldn't wait to get home. All I could think about was flopping myself down on the bed (or the floor) and going to sleep . . . forever.  After setting my alarm clock to ensure that I would make it to the gym on time for my afternoon/evening schedule, I did exactly that.  Within moments, I was dead asleep.  

It felt like my head just hit the pillow when my alarm clock went off three hours later.  I got up and decided that I felt a little bit better . . . maybe.  After I consumed my late afternoon meal, I went into the linen closet to get my dose of sinus medication to try and get through the rest of my day.  I store all of my quasi-medical supplies in a large tray in the linen closet.  Thinking about my afternoon and evening lineup, I went right to the tray and grabbed for the blister pack containing the two sinus pills.  I walked into the kitchen and began filling a glass with cool, purified, refreshing drinking water.  While I waited for the glass to fill, I just so happened to turn the package over.   What occurred next took a moment to register.  There, in very big, very bold, all upper-case letters were these words: "NIGHTTIME SLEEP AID."  Incredulous, I turned the package back over and stared at the two little pills.  Like the sinus meds, they were oblong-shaped; except they were not pale-green; they were pale blue!  UGH!  I wasn't taking sinus medication, I was taking SLEEPING PILLS!  IDIOT! 

Suddenly wide awake, I rushed back to my linen closet, ripped open the door and looked into my medicine tray.  Sure enough, right next to the sinus meds were the sleeping pills.  Honestly, I don't even remember getting anything to help me sleep; must of been a very long time ago!  I promptly disposed of the "nighttime sleep aid" and after taking the correct medication, miraculously my sinus problems disappeared.  

And after sleeping for about a week, the effects of the nighttime sleep aid wore off and I was back to my old, energetic, happy self once again!

Amazing that I get through life isn't it?

Perspective

Every so often life gives you a shot of perspective.  Just a little bit of insight into how others perceive you.  I always enjoy these unexpected moments because they tend to let me know if I am on the right track.

The other day, I was in the gym talking with a bunch of my group training students before class began.  Turns out that one of them has a six-year-old daughter with an artistic flare.  Apparently, one evening the child decided to sit down and draw a picture of the gym and some of us in it.  She made sure that she drew the stairs leading up to the gym, the doorway leading into the gym, the front desk and then me:

Though it's a little difficult to see, the partially erased figure on the far left with extraordinarily long stringy hair is yours truly.  When her mother took a look at the original picture, she told her daughter that I recently had my hair cut to which she replied, with a raised brow, "oh, I wasn't aware of that."

Not at all a problem for our budding artist.  She quietly set about back to work and drew me again.  Hence the figure on the right of the girl with the short hair and baseball hat on backwards!  Here's a closeup:

HA! HA! HA! I LOVE it!  Children always seem to nail the details.  She might have missed my impressive biceps and absolutely incredible lat spread but at least she got the big smile and the New Orleans Saints hat . . . you know the real important stuff!   

The Long and Short of It

I finally did it. 

After about a year and a half, I decided that it was time to have my hair lopped off.  I grew it out to such a preposterous length for one reason only -- to donate it to Locks of Love for someone to use and enjoy.

I have to admit that one of the perks for me during the past year and a half was that my hair really didn't take much to maintain.  (At least not the way that I did it.)  For those that really know me, I am not someone who enjoys overly fussing with styling my hair; getting up and running a brush through it is about all of the "styling" that I can tolerate . . . really. 

All of my life people constantly commented on my "wonderfully thick" and "beautiful" hair.  Decades worth of hairdressers noted just how much I could do with it.  Well, that's nice except that I cannot think of a more fantastic waste of time than having to spend an hour styling my hair.  I therefore did the next best thing; grew it out, cut it all off and then sent it forth into the world for someone else to style! 

So knowing my general attitude toward all things excessively girly, you can imagine the hysteria that ensued when I told my little sister that I was going to pay a visit to a random hairdresser to have my hair cut off . . .  all by myself! 

Holding the phone out about two feet from my ear I heard very loud and abundantly clear, "CHRISTINE HARDY!  DON'T YOU D-A-R-E GO WITHOUT ME!"  She had to make absolutely certain that she was present at all pertinent times to give the professional hairdresser explicit instructions on how to properly cut and style my hair.  (Recall that she was the one that made me put in big purple curlers before my photo shoot . . . and I did so . . . without a peep . . . well almost anyway!)   

To command the utmost control over the situation, my little sister arranged to have a hairdresser come directly to her home.  My request was pretty straight forward -- cut my hair and make it look half-way decent.  Accomplishing the task required only a single comb and pair of sharp scissors.  That's it.  My little sister, on the other hand, required so much more . . . of everything.  There were numerous mixing bowls involved, an assortment of intriguing brushes, tongs, clips, combs, rubber gloves, pins, little sheets of tin foil and an array of unidentifiable substances; substances that smelled like industrial paint remover and could likely melt your skin and/or instantly burn a hole clean through your skull.  At a certain point, I couldn't help but wonder if exposure to this kind of stuff was safe without extensive Hazmat gear. 

For me, this was indeed quite an eye-opener.  Before this experience, I never dreamed that it was possible to tie up the better part of an entire day having your hair done.  Apparently it is. 

When all was said and done, I ended up with something called a "modified shag" and Locks of Love ended up with twelve inches of hair to to with as they see fit.  For the most part everyone seems to like my brand new style.  In fact, I received extensive compliments and in the process discovered that there were literally hoards of people out there (many of whom I've never formally met) who thought that I looked like utter shit with long hair.  Do I really care?  Uh . . . hell no!  

Here is what I look like now in case any of you happen to pass me on the street (want my autograph) and don't immediately recognize me: 

Look Out Tiger!

A couple of months ago, I decided that I needed some sort of a hobby.  I was looking for something that would take me outside of the gym and provide an opportunity to develop a brand new set of skills. 

As I thought about it, I recalled that many people over the years suggested that golf might be a viable option.  "Why you're so athletic and strong," they would say, "you would be really good at it."  To these people I would listen politely, smile, nod in half-hearted agreement and then promptly blow them off.  To my way of thinking, golf was boring and far too slow paced for someone as high-strung and edgy as myself.  However, as summer's end came closer and closer, I began giving it more and more serious consideration.  And, after numerous conversations with a woman in the gym who all but guaranteed that I would find the game enjoyable and relaxing, I finally surrendered and decided to learn.

Before I could come to my senses and change my mind, I quickly called my little sister to see if I could borrow her golf clubs.  Since she is currently chained to her computer writing her dissertation, working and raising two little boys, she tends to be preoccupied with activities essential to the continuation of life such as eating, hydrating, converting oxygen to carbon dioxide and occasionally sleeping.  So, getting my hands on a decent set of clubs wasn't at all an issue. 

Once I had a set of clubs to work with, the next logical step was to figure out how to use them.  To prepare, I started watching the golf channel. (I can't believe that I am actually admitting this in a public forum.)  I wanted to study the various movements involved and acquaint myself with the particulars of the game.  I observed the pros drive, chip and putt all the while paying particular attention to how they moved their bodies.  Because I have TiVo, I watched these things in ultra-slow motion. 

After studying the pros and dissecting their every movement, I gained a general understanding of how to swing a golf club.  My next step was to find competent instruction.  I needed to get the basics down.  My strategy was simple -- hit the ball.  Once I had that down, only then would I concern myself with things like alignment and putting; things that I deemed minor details.  I had it all figured out.  With this general plan laid firmly in place, off to the driving range I went . . .

My very first lesson was understanding the proper way to "address" the ball.  That was pretty easy and straight forward.  Everything that followed, however, was unspeakably incomprehensible. 

After the address, I had to ensure the proper "set up"  depending on the club that I was using.  Once I figured out where to align the ball in my stance I had to go through quite a few steps before actually swinging the club.  I had to bend my knees, tilt slightly forward at the hips, straighten my left arm, keep my head down and affix my gaze to the ball.  Without taking my eyes off of the ball or otherwise lifting my head mind you, I had to twist or "coil" my upper body around the "axis" of my right hip to ensure a "spring" like action when my hips rotated on the downswing to ensure maximum club-head speed at the moment of impact.  In a word . . . HUH??? 

Pardon me (children close your eyes and skip this part) but this is the most fucked up way of moving that I've ever experienced.  You gotta be KIDDING ME! After a few practice swings I determined that there is exactly nothing at all natural about this.  Not only did I feel famously stupid gyrating around publicly in this manner but it was also terrifically uncomfortable.

After taking a series of practice swings and quickly looking around to ensure that no one else would bear witness,  I "addressed" the ball.  I accomplished the address without incident.  Only after the address did things really go straight to hell. 

Making sure that I had the proper set up for the five iron I bent, tilted, straightened, coiled, sprung and followed through.  According to my instructor, my swing was "beautiful" and my follow through "complete."  That's great . . . except for one thing.  When I was all done coiling, twisting, springing and following through, I failed to make any sort of contact with the ball which I am pretty sure is a necessary component of the swing and an essential part of the game.  After all of this movement, I looked down and there it sat -- totally still and wholly unaffected as if to say, "you missed." 

After MANY, MANY, MANY miserable swings, I finally connected with the ball and hit it straight for about 150 yards.  Honestly, I am not really sure how that happened but it was indeed a small victory -- a little flicker of light at the end of a very long, dark, profoundly scary tunnel.  Slightly encouraged, I tried again . . . and again . . .  and again . . . and again . . . and again . . .  and yet again. . .   After about one hundred and twenty swings (not including practice one's where I had to "brush" the grass before hitting the ball which is an entirely different story) I was left with a mere handful of hits that fell into the "respectable" category.  I was pissed and it didn't help that my lower back and hamstrings were absolutely killing me.  I exited the driving range with discomfort in areas on my person that I don't believe that my ninety-year-old grandmother ever felt.

Since I am not a quitter, I immediately went to a sporting goods store and purchased wiffle balls so that I could practice this nonsense in my own front yard.  Determined to get a decent swing down and eventually play the game, I practiced daily for weeks.  I was so determined that I didn't care who was watching.  I hit those wiffle balls with every single one of the clubs in that golf bag from the woods right down to the sand wedge whether I understood the club's purpose or not. (I can't be certain but I think that I attempted to swing with an instrument designed to retrieve balls that end up in the water.)  I didn't care.  If it was in the bag . . . I swung it.   

At first my neighbors were mildly amused . . . then slightly concerned . . . and now completely alarmed.  If they see me heading out to the side of the apartment complex with my golf clubs, cheat sheet, wiffle balls and coffee, they immediately grab their loved ones and run for shelter. 

I practiced twisting, bending, tilting, coiling, rotating, turning and following through.  I practiced "brushing the grass" with the club so that I would stop topping the ball.  I swung those clubs until my arms just about fell out of their respective sockets and I couldn't quite stand up straight.  I was out there day and night hitting wiffle balls and cussing.  If I lost track of them, no bother, I just bought more.  There were wiffle balls concealed in the bushes, lodged way up in the trees, hiding in the tall grass and laying in wait underneath cars in the parking lot.  I am not really sure how this occurred but one of my neighbors, who is unfortunately positioned directly in my line of my fire, found a wiffle ball stuffed in his bird feeder.  They were all over the place.  Molly (my puppy) thought that it was a fantastic game!  Every time she went outside she would stick her head into the bushes or into the flower bed and pull out a wiffle ball. For quite a stretch, one or two wiffle balls would magically appear at my front door in the morning with a note attached:  "Please seek help."

Undeterred, I continued hitting wiffle balls and frequenting the driving range.  With each visit I got progressively better.  At one point, I nailed 20 balls in a row with the five iron hard and straight.  HA!  After a few of these positive experiences my confidence soared to new levels and I was ready to take it to the golf course . . . look out Tiger . . . there is some stiff competition on the way!

   

Coming Back Again

Nine months. Enough time to conceive a child and give birth. Enough time to start and end a standard school year. That's how long it's taken me to come back from the knee injury that I inherited during a charitable tug-of-war event in August of last year.

Today I trained my legs. And I am infinitely pleased to report that today was the very first day that I completed a full blown leg workout and really felt strong. Ever since I began working my legs again, I could sense my right leg working overtime to compensate for the weakness in the left. By way of example, when I initially reintroduced the squat and the leg press I had to really think about these movements and concentrate on pushing evenly with both legs. Otherwise, the right would do most if not all of the real work. But on this day it all changed.

On this day, for the very first time, I didn't have to think about it that hard. On this day, a 135-pound squat felt like home again. On this day, fully contracting the left quad did not cause an odd "twinge" in my knee. On this day, I could touch my left heel to my left butt cheek without any pain. On this day, I didn't feel like if I twisted hard to the left with my leg planted that the entire knee complex would all but collapse. On this day, I can honestly say that I am really starting to get it back again.

In this particular workout, I completed seven sets of squats. Now, for those of you that really know me, I didn't just do the squats. I had to super-set it with leg presses for reps! That is after each set of squats I went over to the leg press and cranked out 15 more reps. On the seventh and final super set, I topped out at 175 on the free weight squat (SOLID 10 reps) and 260 on the leg press (unflappable 12 reps). Not bad at ALL! From there I went directly over to the Smith Rack and performed three sets of split squats to really hit the quads. (Truth be told, I really don't care for this exercise. However, since it is an excellent quad builder I decided that it was time for me to not only learn but master it. After all, there was a time when I couldn't stand the free weight squat either. I got over it.) After I completed all of these compound movements, I topped off the workout with three sets of quad extensions supersetted with three sets of laying leg curls. Done. My legs were really feeling it . . . but in a very GOOD way!

My immediate goal is to work hard to bring back the size in the left quad and hamstring.  From there . . . who knows!

YEP! YEP!

Road Trip!

Sometimes ya just gotta get outta Dodge.  And this past weekend, that's exactly what I did.  After I finished up my early morning group training classes on Saturday, I piled in the car and headed west . . . all the way to Saugatuck! 

When I feel like it's time to hit the "reset" button, clear my mind and find a bit of inspiration, Saugatuck is where I like to hang out.  I love sipping fresh coffee, meandering up and down the streets and wandering into whichever shop happens to tickle my fancy at the moment.  There is no hurry; no particular agenda.  Time is plentiful, the air is fresh and the conversation interesting and lively.

Not surprisingly, this is where my morning began: 

 

I got myself a steaming cup of "Paint it Black" and then plopped my butt right down out here for awhile and took in some light reading:

At the back of the alley sits this little table.  It looked so inviting that I just had to snap a picture:

After I took my last sip of coffee and found a good enough place to mark my page, I took a stroll along the streets for awhile just enjoying the day. One particular shop caught my attention so I went ahead in and happened upon Mr. Butler stealing a nap in the late morning sun: 

What a life!

And just so that you can get a little taste of where I stayed overnight, I took this video off of the back patio. The sun was a little bit bright reflecting off the water but you can get an idea of what it looked like! I only went for a day and a half. But then again . . . sometimes that's all you really need . . . nothing major; just a brief detour to bring your spirit back into alignment once again.

   

Meet Molly

Life just got a whole lot busier in my household!  About a month ago, I adopted a brand new puppy . . . everyone meet Molly:

 

Molly is a Mountain Cur "mix."  Since Molly's mother came into the shelter just before giving birth to her litter, we know for certain that her mother is a full-blooded Mountain Cur.  As for Molly's father, well . . . truth be told no one really knows for certain.  It seems as though Molly's unsuspecting mother was the victim of a hit-and-run.  Or perhaps she simply grew weary of life in her own yard and went out on the town one fine evening and thereafter found herself in a "motherly way."  Or perhaps she wanted to have babies but didn't want the burden of a long-term committed relationship.  Or perhaps she was the neighborhood floozy in which case any male dog within a hundred mile radius could be Molly's father.  Notwithstanding, whatever her mother's proclivities, Molly is a "mix" of some sort or another. 

The Mountain Cur is basically a hound dog . .  an uber-hound really.  As a point of interest, the main character in the book Old Yeller written by Fred Gipson in 1956 featured a Mountain Cur.  However, when Hollywood got a hold of the story and made it into a movie Yeller was played by a Yellow Lab.  Actually, it stretches the imagination quite a little bit to believe that a Yellow Lab would possess the raw courage to fight off a rabid wolf to protect his family.  But then again it's Hollywood.  Anything is possible.  Yeller could just as easily have been played by a gerbil pumped up on steroids I guess.

Getting to know Molly, I can see where she would be sufficiently fierce to fend off such menacing animals.  She is very protective and just doesn't back down.  Period.  It is this temperament that made the Cur an extremely valuable asset to the pioneers of the southern Kentucky and Tennessee mountains. To be sure, the victory in settling this region belongs to this tough little hunter.  From what I gather, the Mountain Cur has no problem confronting a bobcat or staring down a bear if pushed too far.  And knowing all of this makes me feel SO much more secure here in suburbia just in case I happen upon a bobcat perched in a tree ready to pounce or unwittingly rouse a bear napping in the bushes.

Here are some pictures that I took of Molly over the past four weeks or so.  She is growing daily.  A lot actually.  I think that I am going to wind up with a very large dog here.  One thing I do know for sure . .. Molly's daddy wasn't a Chiwawa. 

 

Christine's Adventures at the 2008 Arnold Classic

Last Saturday my colleague Jeff Vitale and I decided to take the day off and drive down to Columbus, Ohio to see what the Arnold Classic was all about first hand.  For those of you that don't know, this is simply the biggest fitness expo in the entire country and since we both fancy ourselves to be quite the bodybuilding and fitness enthusiasts, we figured that it might be a good idea to actually attend.

The event touted as "A Weekend of Sports and a Lifetime of Fitness" began on Friday and ended on Sunday evening.  Packed into the Columbus Convention Center were 150,000 fitness fans, 650 booths showcasing every aspect of fitness imaginable and 17,000 athletes competing in 39 different sporting events.  Once we arrived, we quickly realized that there was NO WAY that we were ever going to make it through the literal sea of people to the stage where the bodybuilding/fitness events were taking place.  With a collective shrug of our shoulders we remained content to view the various contests on large HD monitors positioned all over the center as we wandered through the expo.

We spent the entire day moving from one booth to the next, taking in the latest and greatest trends in fitness, looking at workout attire, sampling protein bars, consuming all sorts of energy drinks and trying to spot some of bodybuilding's most famous athletes.  You know.  The one's that you see all of the time in the magazines.  It's a good thing that Jeff was there.  I stopped reading these publications sometime in the the mid 90's and really couldn't identify any of them save for the most famous  (like Arnold or Dave Draper for instance.  I tend to really like the old-timers and couldn't tell you who the top contenders are today let alone identify them.)  But as we wandered about Jeff pointed out some of the most notable and I snapped the pictures. 

One more thing before you go ahead and view the photos.  For those of you that actually compare your body to the one's that you see gracing the pages of these magazines, do keep in mind that there is a re-toucher out there somewhere earning a small fortune in overtime.  That said, here are some of the pictures that I took at the event:

A picture of me and IFBB pro Lee Priest.  After we took the picture, I gave him a few tips on how to make his biceps bigger.  He thanked me profusely.

A photo of Arnold addressing the crowd at the EAS booth.  As you can tell from the picture, I was WAY in the back and couldn't see a thing!  So, instead of waiting in line and fighting the crowd to get my picture taken with Arnold, I simply held my camera above my head and clicked hoping to get something.  I know.  Pretty pathetic.  But that is indeed Arnold all the way up there on the platform.  Whatever.

And then I spotted the INCREDIBLE HULK! (Lou Ferrigno one of my very favorite bodybuilders of all time).  I LOVED, LOVED, LOVED that show when I was a kid (I even went so far as to put on one of my little sister's fancy blouses which, of course, was much too small for me just so that I could pretend to turn green, flex my muscles and actually rip the shirt at the seams!  My mother was pissed.  So was my little sister. IT WAS SO WORTH IT!)

Once again, I didn't want to wait in that line either so I just stood right in front of him and took his picture.  Thanks Lou!  Here are a few more:

 

 

Not only were there bodybuilders and fitness enthusiasts hanging out at the expo, as you can well imagine, there were also many scantily-dressed, product-peddling models lurking around every corner:

I simply couldn't resist.  I forced Jeff to take a picture with them.  Now how could I allow him to pass on such a wonderful opportunity? What kind of friend would I be were I to stand silently by and permit such a thing to occur?

 

Okay, back to business.  Here is a picture of me and IFBB Fitness Pro Adela Garcia.  This woman is an absolutely awesome athlete.  She was a genuine person, very gracious and pleasant to chat with:

A candid shot of Frank Zane (A bodybuilding legend in his own time):

   

And a picture of Frank Zane with Christine Hardy (a bodybuilding legend in her own mind.)  HA! HA! HA!

After consuming every energy drink under the sun and posing with all of the half-naked models, Jeff thought that it would be fun to partake in a pull-up contest sponsored by the United States Marine Corps.  He completed 5,000 pull-ups.  Simply amazing! 

Way to go Jeff!  I did not participate in the event.  I didn't want to show anyone up; especially the men.  You know how sensitive they can be about such things.  (he he he!)  I did, however, have a wonderful time encouraging Jeff and taking his picture.

After about six hours of walking around the expo and making sure that we saw all that we could possibly see, we made the trip home.  It was indeed a lot of fun and well worth the drive!