ASK A TRAINER: What is My Maximum Heart Rate?

zzzzzzzz lift and bitch 033Hi FitBabe!

How would you determine a maximum heart rate for me? Continue reading

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The Sausage Finger Diet, and other Crazy Ideas

My sausage finger is now ready for amputation.

My sausage finger is now ready for amputation.

I instantly trust the take-charge doctor who enters the room without looking at me. No time waster, he focuses on the bloody hand laid open on a metal table. After prodding the deep cut in my middle finger for ten seconds, he makes a dramatic announcement: “three stitches.” The nurse who preps me for the minor surgery is annoyed, for I have bled profusely, dripping onto the dark gray mat by the reception desk before leaving a detective-worthy trail to the examination room. In her eyes, I am nothing but a biohazard, and a stupid one at that. Continue reading

The Ethics of Intervention

The group of mottly New Brunswickers had no coxswain.

That will teach you to laugh at our hats, European bitches! 

Brits sure love to row, I think to myself, flashing back to the televised Heritage Minute in which a group of Canadians win the World Championship in 1867. Oh how the badly dressed fishermen sniggered as their heavy boat slid by the fancy pants team from Oxford. Now it’s my turn to show those weedy coxswain-knockers what’s what. After hunching over musty medical books at the Wellcome Library all week, I cannot wait to work my back. I settle onto a machine at the busy Tottenham Court Road gym—ah, the seat is still warm—turn the tension up to 10, pop in my earbuds, and push through my legs and torso before pulling the bar to mid chest while leaning back slightly. Check that form, baby! My feeling of euphoria does not last long, coming to an abrupt halt when a young woman awkwardly straddles the machine beside me. She is skeletal, her painfully knobby knees and shin bones protruding though a layer of thin skin.  Continue reading

PDDS Goes to Emerg (and then writes about it for FFG)

Jody front pic7:45 pm
Sitting in the waiting room after a tough legs workout, I am quite hungry. I dig around in my backpack until I locate a well travelled banana. Settling back in the hard chair I begin to peel it, letting my curious gaze flicker around the room, taking in each individual’s appearance, trying to imagine their stories. Unfortunately, my eyes settle on a button-challenged security guard whose pale, hairless chest has been deliberately exposed. He eyes my banana before sending a wink in my direction. Not wishing to make his pathetic porno fantasies come true, I pack up my bag and relocate to the opposite end of the room before continuing my meal. Continue reading