I may be a little late at getting to it but, like many Americans, the new year led me to make goals that I haven’t previously succeeded at. One of those goals, “I will be more informed about where my money goes”, led me on a very new, and frightening journey. Today I went…to the gym!
That’s right, for months there has been a funnel from my checking account to that of a particular exercise and health facility. It’s great in theory. There is some one thing that happens in your life and causes you to seek a healthier lifestyle or to reclaim the body that was once yours. Maybe you had a health scare, have a reunion or wedding, maybe some innocent, cherubic little imp screeched, “Mommy, that ladies FAT!” (or some Alzheimer’s riddled old man said the same). Either way, there is some monumental event that drives a person to go to a gym, follow some thin, well-muscled twenty-year-old around and nod appreciatively as they point out the torturous looking gadgetry that they insist is top of the line (like my fat-ass is sooo schooled on fitness equipment that I’d know the difference). And then, to top it off, we give them the authority to funnel money from our checking accounts on a monthly basis while we sit at home, watching television and thinking, “I should really join a gym or something!”
So, I sucked it up. I got off the couch, dusted off my duffle bag and drove to the gym (and those of you who run or ride your bike to the gym are sick I tell you!). I’m not going to brag about my accomplishments & say crap like, “it was just like I’d never left”. It was nothing like that. I started out easy—the treadmill—because I figured that even though I haven’t been to the gym in a very long time it wasn’t like I’d given up walking! As it turns out, I must have not walked uphill much. Or very fast for that matter. But, damn it, I walked. Like for 20 or 30 minutes. Continuously!
Now, my sister-in-law goes to the same gym. She informed me that the gym is having a 12 week challenge. There is a grand prize of a lot of money! I am a terribly competitive person, so she had me at “challenge”. Money was just icing on the cake. “But,” she told me, “we have to have our picture taken so they can see before & after.”
I signed up for the challenge, of course I had my hair done & makeup on, and then they tell me the rules of the photos: ladies must wear a two-piece outfit so that the results are easily seen.
“I am NOT wearing a bikini,” I barked at the poor kid who signed me up.
“It’s ok,” he assured me, “you can just wear spandex short shorts and a sports bra.”
“I don’t own spandex,” I said and stood up so that he could get a good, and realistic look at what should have been a presumed fact, “for obvious reasons.”
I spent the next few hours trying to remember if I had any of my old spandex exercise shorts. Certainly there had to be one pair that had stretched out enough that I could still breath but not so worn that hints of my mayonnaise colored flesh would peek through the material.
So, if you happen to see a photo of what looks like a softball wearing a rubber band, look real close. Does that softball have a ponytail and blue eyes? That may be me. In spandex. With a blood vein or two threatening to burst.