It's a Washboard. Yup.

I recently considered lifting my T-shirt up and over my head, removing it completely from my body and exposing some torso ... in public, at the running trail on Town Lake. Yes, I contemplated being that guy, only for a moment though.

It was a haste thought that was gone once I consulted with the ‘how to behave stupidly’ guide.

I remember several years back when my roommate asked me which laundromat I take my laundry for washing. I responded by pouring a glass of deep purple wine on myself and then ripped my shirt off like the Incredible Hulk and began washing the stain out of my shirt on my abdomen like some arrogant donkeyass in an infomercial.

That varies slightly in truth, but point being, I’m going for gold in getting a ripped midsection. That is why I joined a core fitness class.

It kicked my ass today and pummeled me into a mound of hamburger meat that was left on the grill, charred and chewed, but hardened, like gum beneath your desk.

But the fact that it also kicked Derek Johnson’s ass made me feel better. Yes, that’s right, the former Longhorn and NFL pro-bowl player and I were the only two guys in the class.

We don’t really know each other, though we did have a class together back in 2004 and we worked on a group project, which I shouldered all the work.

He parked his aerobic step next to me and we started talking about the secret gold mine that the class was … lots of “honnies” as he put it. I asked him if he'd ever done the core class before and he made it clear, "Hellz naw holmez, but I am now."

At any rate, class started and we were both so off the mark in keeping up with everyone it was just embarrassing. People were laughing at us. The instructor made little effort to go more than five feet away from us because we were out of control and shitty at core development apparently.

And we were only 10 minutes into it and I had already switched on the ‘profuse sweating’ button that I typically reserve for trips to the sun, saunas, awkward conversations with girls and fevers.
He then started grunting uncontrollably once the instructor asked us to pick up the weights to do some knee lifts. I thought the grunts were unnecessary. Everyone already knew he was struggling, why drill the point deeper? It's like saying, "Hi, I lift weights in my spare time and when I'm not doing that, you can find me lifting heavier weights."

“I can’t do this,” he said to me. I said nothing. But the instructor came and put her hand on my lower back to correct me and encouraged me to push. Apparently I couldn't either.

You’ve got to be kidding me though. An NFL linebacker who gets millions for his athletic prowess can’t lift 20 pounds and lunge forward at the same time like some homosexual ninja trying to stretch out his fancy pants?

It certainly made me feel better about barely being able to do a reverse kickback while pumping my shoulders in the air to the tune of Night of the Roxbury theme music.

This leads me to believe that if I endure these classes twice a week and stick to my running regiment, I’ll be washing clothes in public. Word.