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4 minutes to save my self-esteem
Every year, in the months preceding summer, I delude myself into thinking that if I take the stairs once a week and refrain from eating the crust off my pizza, my body will somehow morph into one resembling Madonna's. It didn't work last year, it probably won't work this year, but at least I make the effort. Doesn't that count for something? I thought so, until I saw Mrs. Guy Ritchie on the cover of Vanity Fair's Green Issue looking as taut as a trampoline.
Is it wrong that I—a gay guy in his early twenties—am envious of a body owned and operated by a woman of nearly 50? I say no. I say I make it my mission to find out what exactly she eats/drinks/does/injects to achieve her physique—because when I sold my soul to the prince of darkness, I don't recall there being an "everlasting hot body" clause anywhere on that contract.
According to fitness fiend Tracy Anderson—whose Studio City fitness studio opened two years ago and has only flourished since—Madonna, in part, gets her toned form from her dance aerobics classes. I was recently sent a DVD of said workout, so I made an attempt at learning the routine—maybe my physical fitness pipe dreams would come true this year after all. Needless to say—as indicated in the title of this post—I lasted about four minutes, at which point I went back to basking in the warm luminosity of my computer screen. My legs were sore the next day, and I'll probably make another attempt at learning Tracy's moves as the summer inches closer, but for now I'm quite content taking in Google's glow off of my MacBook Pro. Besides isn't getting a head start on my tan just as important?
—Marcos Luevanos
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