I Blame Mark Wahlberg


Now that I have your attention, I guess I have to shoot for the stars to keep it. I don’t take throwing around the namesake of Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch lightly—but I must give credit and/or blame where credit and/or blame is due.

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I blame Mr. Wahlberg because, when I point my finger at him, it means there are three fingers pointing back at me.

Yes, that’s the lame-ass thing your teacher always said when you ratted-out Bobby Beltcher for wiping boogers down the side of your desk, or breaking your crayons; but it has still always resonated in my brain throughout my life.

Bear with me a moment as I explain the positive aspect of pointing a finger at Mark (if I may be permitted to be so bold to call him by his first name).

As I drove to my J.O.B. this morning the entertainment news came on and, the now-grown, Marky Mark was one of the topics. Apparently, Mark gets up at 2:30 every morning, six days a week, to adhere to a strict workout regime. Why? No clue. I’m not in the mood to Google, and his “why” is not the reason for this blog. It’s my “why” that is the reason for this. My personal regime.

Back in 2004, I was injured at work and spent almost a year recovering from those injuries. At the time, I was heading down the final stretch to obtaining my black belt in tae kwon do, and had to let it fall by the wayside. After receiving the green light to begin my strenuous training again, I knew my body was in no condition to do so, so I took it upon myself to become “the crazy lady who gets up at 4:30am to exercise.”

For six months, I battled my way back to my pre-injury physical state before returning to Martial Arts; but it was not without many internal arguments when the alarm went off each morning.

“You work hard. You really need your sleep.”

“You should rest. You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep this up.”

There were some days I would lay in bed for half an hour arguing with that damn pessimist on my shoulder. Nevertheless, I fought back… I fought back hard.

“I’m already awake. There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep.”

“You know you need this. You must get up.”

“GET UP!”

“You define who you want to be. BE the ‘crazy lady who gets up at 4:30am to exercise’; and embrace everything about her.”

The crazy lady won, and I continued that exercise regime until I achieved my black belt, and then, years past that. It wasn’t until another medical issue beat me down three years ago, that I let the crazy lady slide. Blah, blah, blah… long story short… that negative biatch on my shoulder won. I never bounced back. I had a momentary duck-and-weave that lasted about three months, but I let myself get knocked down again and again.

Well… I’m a grandmother now, so I have society’s permission to be an ornery old bat.

Guess what? I’m going to become a feisty old bat who can deliver a round kick that will knock you into a week from Wednesday.

I’m back.

When I heard that the one-year-my-junior Mark Wahlberg had such a strict regime, it kinda threw my excuses out the window. He, like me, is a… How do I say this eloquently? Well, plain and simple: he’s an old fart like me.

I decided to point the finger of blame at him, so those other damn three fingers would, in turn, point back at me. Taunting me. Daring me to sleep in. Mocking me when I eye that double-fudge brownie sundae.

Is dear Mark going to show up at my door and be my rock, my mentor, my support, my accountability beacon? No. (But if he’s ever in Toronto, I’d surely treat him to a double-fudge brownie sundae.) What he’s done is make me say it out loud. So now, all of my family and friends can hold me accountable. Maybe I’ll make a bracelet that says WWMMD—What Would Marky Mark Do?

Veronica is back; and madder than hell at her old Jell-O six-pack.

I’m giving myself until Friday to figure out how to hook the DVD player up to the new TV in our basement; and then it’s no-holds barred… again.

It is doubtful that my six-pack will ever grace the pages of a magazine in a Calvin Klein ad like our dear Mr. Wahlberg; but damn-it, I’m dusting off my Jillian Michaels’ DVDs and shooting for some wicked granny-abs.

Why?

Why not?

Why should I get winded while playing in the park with my granddaughter?

Why should things ache when I bend over?

I had my daughter at a young age so that I could be young and vital for her and my grandchildren; so I’m ashamed of myself for losing that vision over the past three years. I don’t give a damn about how I look in a pair of jeans; but I do give a damn if I am hunched over a walker by the time I’m seventy.

So when the day comes that my granddaughter feels the need to say, “My grandma can kick your grandma’s butt,” it will be the gawd-honest truth.

Don’t worry sweetie, Ninja Grandma’s on her way!

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