Hot Arms Give Out in the Portuguese Pastries Onslaught

Ok, so I haven't posted for a while, as D, my partner in this Hot Arming blog, points out. Truth is, I am just not that prolific, for many reasons, but mostly because of my contrarian nature: I instinctively recoil in the presence of all the written diarrhea that blogging, tweeting, and whatever else marketers are bound to call the "connectivity" that has encouraged it...but maybe more on that later...

I haven't posted because there's been little to report since my last post, other than Hot Arms recently enthusing about the merits of the "kickboxing boot camp" she, and many others, finished a couple of weeks back--for an extra $100. Although many went and are continuing to go this route, as long as the dojo is offering it, I still think it smacks of buying a black belt faster. But who knows, I might change my mind. The other notable Hot Arms moment was witnessing her doing pull-ups, putting my feeble quivering attempts (I think I rose a centimeter) to shame. So, the Hot Arms program gave me nice tone, but hasn't really addressed upper body strength, which most women are woefully lacking in. Alas... That occasion was only buoyed by the spectacle of watching Hot Arms and her class partner, who I'll call Y, Hot Ams' tall, blonde Slavic doppelganger, pulling up in tandem, sweat sheening their hot arms and only slightly dampening their long, pony-tailed hair. D and I stood watching, separately stupified, until D glanced at me and remarked, "Now there's a sight!"

Indeed.

Thus, it was with this memory and my toned arms that I left the dojo for a two week trip to the land of my ancestors: Portugal. My girlfriend, who had never been there and has been pestering me to go since we got together, accompanied me.

Everyone remarked on how thin I looked, which, ironically, like other women conscious of their (over)weight, I cringed every time I heard. My family over there, people in general it seems (apart from the soccer gods), are not exactly what you'd call athletic. Certainly, they are not obese by American standards (although, self-admittedly, they're getting there), but they do love their three squares, liberally punctuated with coffees and pastries.

So did I.

Can pastries stimulate that primitive part of your brain that says, "Your hot arms melting into flab is a good thing. You'll need it to survive"? Apparently so, because I never did grow nauseated at the sight of one more "pastel de nata" (traditional custard pastry) or a galao (steamed milk and coffee) or even straight up, liberally sugared cafe. Not to mention the three squares: seafood, seafood, and more seafood, and even a few vegetarian lapses into hamburgaos (big ole hamburgers--but only because the cows are locally reared, grass fed, and therefore, as my friend Catarina noted after we passionately discussed not eating meat one night and then the next day at lunch gave into our cravings, "happy cows."). (It was to be one of my several lapses as it turns out).

What did I have to show for all this when I returned to the dojo? Well, let's just say now I can see the genetic connection to my family...in the arms.