Bosu Me

      God, I hope there are no hidden cameras in my house. If any of my neighbors can see in, there’s going to be a popular YouTube video popping up soon. Nothing sexual, you perv! I fell (literally) once again for the latest health and fitness trend. Will I never learn?

      As this is my fiftieth year, I figured it’s time to become a lean, mean loving machine, lest I find myself sixty with four cats. I Kindled Tim Ferriss’ latest book called “The 4-Hour Body” hoping his diet includes gnocchi. It doesn’t. (Well, on binge day, technically, it can.) Tim recommended the Buso workout as an excellent way to discover my hidden abs. Stand back, world!

      To give an idea of how graceless I am, allow me to transport you back five years when peer pressure persuaded me to attend a yoga class. When I unrolled the public-use mat, my mind immediately pictured a fresh layer of dirty, hammer-toed foot residue. Ew. My solution was to do yoga in socks. Five minutes into the class, the instructor stopped (mid-dog) and called me out in front of the class, directing me to remove my socks before I break my neck. (Bet I’m the only person you know who has Purell’d his feet.) During the workout, she kept “helping” me to get into the poses. I must have said, “I’m sorry, but that part of me won’t bend that way” ten times. I hate yoga.

      Roll forward to trendy Phil trekking outward to find a Bosu Ball. Sports Authority had one, so, $119 later, I was in my living room foot pumping away to inflate my abdominal sculptor. Anxious to begin (only seven months left to my big five-oh, people), I changed into fitness attire and inserted the workout DVD.

      If you haven’t already left me to see for yourself, this device has a large, round, flat base with an inflated rubber half-ball connected to the top. The object is to step on and off it while doing various balancing exercises, which work your core. I must have a rotten core.

      The DVD featured two fitness instructors: one woman, mid-fifties with little exposed flesh who did lower impact exercises and one woman, thirtyish with lots of skin exposed who was for the more advanced viewers. Naturally, I’d have to follow the elder while trying not to stare at the younger (an odd parallel to my dating life). They reminded me numerous times during the warm-up to simply step off the device when I lost balance.

      Here’s a synopsis of the first ten minutes:

1.      Step on.

2.      Fall off.

3.      Step on. Flail arms. Lean. Balance.

4.      Fall off.

5.      Step on. Watch screen. Missed one full exercise already. God, young chick is hot.

6.      Fall off.

7.      Tell cats to stop laughing and go lick themselves.

8.      Step on. Balance. Smile proudly. Step off. Step on.

9.      Fall off and slam head on pool table.

10.  Move ball away from pool table. Throw coaster at giggling cat. Hit rewind. Step on.

11.  Fall off.

12.  Ah, finally a floor exercise—only ten-inches to fall. Sit on ball. Do one sit up for every five the hot girl does. Feel inferior. Might vomit. Hit pause. Drink water. Flick water at laughing cat. Try again. Wait for even simpler exercise.

13.  Lie across ball. I can do that. Lift legs. Ow. Lift arms. Ow, ow. Roll off ball into wall. Ow, ow, ow.

14.  Turn off DVD, grab beer, turn on Chelsea Lately.