I don’t have buns.
I don’t have guns.
And I most certainly don’t have abs.
But, I am told that I could have these things if I complete a 30-day challenge called Buns, Guns, and Abs Challenge. Considering that my rapper name is Fluff Mama and that I’m too heavy to fly like Wonder Woman, I’m pretty sure that no 30-day challenge will make these mythical muscles appear, but stranger things have happened.
My husband is the one who asked me to participate in the Buns and Guns Challenge. (I think we can all agree that the challenge sounds better when you leave out the word “abs.”) We’re attempting
to lose weight make better lifestyle choices, and part of that includes doing things that the Couch Potato Olympics Committee frowns upon — moving.
A couple days ago, my husband approached me about the challenge. After talking about exercises and muscles for a few minutes, which I mostly tuned out, he told me, “The first day is easy. And then it goes up a little in intensity each day. Want to do it with me?”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, without one iota of enthusiasm. I really just wanted him to stop naming muscles, plus he did say that it started out easy.
I’m 33. By now I’ve been around the block enough times that I should know that any time I think, “That sounds easy enough,” that it won’t be. Baking brownies out of the box — easy, right? Unless you’re me. Tying a basic braid in my daughter’s hair, walking, parking in an empty lot, and applying eyeliner also aren’t easy. Despite my best efforts, my body is determined to make me look like a spaz whenever possible.
On the first night of the challenge, my husband told me that I had to do ten squats, ten push-ups, and ten leg lifts. That really does sound easy. It should be easy. I thought, “Yeah, I got this.” A few squats later, I found out that I definitely didn’t have this.
Before getting pregnant with Baby Girl, I did a HIIT workout while trying to lose weight. (If you’re not the math sort, Baby Girl is almost three, so between that and 9 months of pregnancy, that means that the last time I did this was almost four years ago.) Anyway, I killed the squats back then. But not that night. My thighs and knees — which are certainly used to getting up and down all day long — betrayed me.
My legs were like…
(Since I started writing this post and completed another day of the challenge, my husband has pointed out that I was doing the squats wrong and was doing them in a way that made it more difficult. Doing them right was easier, so that makes me feel a little better.)
Next were the leg lifts. They seemed pretty easy until my husband told me to lift slowly, hold my legs in place, and lower them slowly — apparently flailing your legs all over the place doesn’t count. Doing them right involved using my nonexistent core muscles, so after five of those, my core was like…
The last part was push-ups. I have always sucked at push-ups, even when I was at a perfectly normal weight (as I discovered many years later) and fairly athletic. My arms just do not like pushing up my body for some reason. They don’t like pulling up my body, either, so chin-ups in gym class back in the day didn’t happen much, either. Heaven forbid I fall face first into a pile of snow one day, because I guarantee that unless my body gets one of those “lift the car off the child” adrenaline rushes, I’ll perish.
As you’ve probably guessed by now, the whole time I did those push-ups, my arms were like…
(Despite my history with push-ups and my arms cursing me, they were the easiest part of the challenge on that day, so maybe all that hauling around Baby Girl has done my arms some good.)
When we were finished my husband pulled out his phone and showed me the rest of the challenge. He told me that by the end of 30 days, I’ll be able to do 100 squats, 40 push-ups, and 100 leg lifts. We’ll see. For the record, we won’t see in 30 days, since I’m sticking with day one for a few more days to work on my form, so maybe in 100 days we’ll see.
Want to participate in the Buns and Guns Challenge? Knock yourself out. (Also, zoom in, because I started writing smaller halfway through for some reason.)
So, are you in? Or do you want to retain the right to make self-depracating jokes about your fluffy body?