I've been borrowing my friend's P90X workout DVDs to try to get myself into some kind of shape for the summer. Three nights a week, I go to bed in my workout clothes, set my alarm to "catapult," and the next morning, at 6 a.m. sharp, I'm launched into the spare bedroom for an hour of whatever P90X Guy wants to inflict on me that day. By the time I'm fully awake, my workout is done.
I was excitedly touting the benefits of working out while asleep to Husband. How the self-satisfied jabber of P90X Guy doesn't get to me at all while I'm still firmly entrenched in dreamland, how I emerge from the room wide-eyed and chipper at 7 a.m., which is quite unlike the usual state of affairs, and, in fact, I don't even remember working out at all! It's like it never happened, except for all of these weird muscles.
Husband, for his part, speculated that what is actually happening each morning is that, after sleepwalking over to my laptop and inserting the DVD, I promptly slump over onto the guest bed and fall asleep again. I was prepared to work myself up into all kinds of outrage over the accusation, but then I thought about it. There's no actual proof that I work out. Nobody sees me do it, and my own memory can't be trusted. There's the occasional BOOM! the children tell me they hear from the next room as I land ungracefully from one of the airborne maneuvers, but, really, that could just be me falling out of bed. Maybe I'm dreaming the whole thing? Maybe my cheery, wakeful state is more accurately explained by the extra hour of sleep I just stole? Husband claims to see no muscles at all.
Anyway, I bring this up because I made a carrot cake on Saturday to be auctioned off at my farm's fundraiser that night. It was a large, double-layer carrot cake with extra cream cheese frosting and chopped pecans. I had to deliver the cake right before the event, so I packaged it up in a large box, complete with the circular cutting board it was resting on and a heavy, glass cake dome to prevent anyone from sneezing on it at the auction. Sneezed-on cakes tend to generate smaller bids than non-sneezed-on cakes.
I parked in the closest lot, which was just across the river. I carried the cake over the footbridge and down the much-longer-road-than-I-remembered to the Charles River Museum of Industry building where the event was taking place. If it was a quarter-mile walk, that would be generous. But let me tell you, people, by the time I arrived at the building, taking pains not to tip the box at all so the dome wouldn't slide into the sides of the cake, struggling to open the door one-handed, my arms were shaking. Once I navigated the halls, ramps, stairs, mandatory small talk, and made my way over to the cake's resting place on the far side of the room, my arms were like jello. I could barely lift the thing out of the box. Also, I was really hungry for carrot cake.
The following day, my arms were sorer than they've ever been after P90X. So either Husband is right and I'm sleeping through my workouts, or I've just stumbled across the best upper body regimen ever. Gingerly carry a carrot cake a quarter of a mile in any direction, and when you get to your destination--and this is the important part--don't eat it.
I look forward to my royalty checks!