Recently I decided that I need to go back to the gym. Yes...the dreaded gym. After switching jobs for the umpteenth time from landscaping to cashiering at a grocery store...I had an epiphany. My ass was getting bigger and I needed to do something about it. So with hat in hand and dragging feet I went back to the gym and rejoined.
Ommigod...I even signed a contract! The hidden penny pincher inside me will not allow me to waste the money spent on this membership. I will go! I will actually "work out"! And I will lose 20 lbs and possibly look five years younger! Even if it kills me...which I'm beginning to think it might.
Crap...what was I thinking?
I went in. Strutted actually. After all, I was no novice. I used to come to this gym every day for almost a year. I knew the people at the desk, the guy that made the best smoothies, which women you just did not want to get in the jacuzzi with, and which scale lied the best.
OK, so I had a plan walking in there the other day. I was going to commit to 1/2 hour of treadmill (cardio I guess they call it), some weights and then the exercise bike thingee. Well not everything always goes according to plan. In fact often...well, my plans can go horribly awry. OK, maybe not horribly....but definitely embarrassingly.
I walked confidently into the locker room, but lost my cockiness when I had to duck and cover after I see the same old ladies just coming in after their Water Aerobics class that were going the last time I was here. Um... over a year ago. One of these ladies is at least 75 years old! I feel like such a wuss! Or at the very least, a quitter.
OK, OK....I can do this. I may be a quitter, but I am also a do-it-over-again-er or... whatever. So I lace up my brand-new, hot pink laces and jog up the stairs to the treadmills. Should I cross myself at this point? I'm not sure.
As I get to the top of the stairs, I am relieved to find the room almost empty. Just one very sweaty dude, boobs bigger than mine (shut up, Sonja) wearing wristbands, doing arm curls with 5 lb. weights. Cool, no competition. I can do this....I can do this.
I jump up onto the treadmill, take a minute to orient myself, and gingerly arch my right, shaking index finger towards the "easy start button". Just for the record, "easy start" is a lie.
After pressing that lying-piece-of-crap button; I had to, while walking at a sedate .5 mph, input my age, my weight, how many kids I had, if I blew my nose that day, how big my crap was that morning, and if I thought donuts were sexy. Ommigod. I thought it should be getting easier!
Oh wait there's more! According to all the data I inputted into the computer of the treadmill, I needed to go 4.0 mph. Doesn't seem like much huh? Try it sometime. For a half hour. Seriously. Do it.
OK. Tired now? Ready to strap a bomb onto the peice of equipment that made you sweat and wheeze so much? Anyway, the moral of the story is something that you are not expecting...
If there are three rows of treadmills at the gym, pick the one with the wall behind you. Why? After going 4.0 mph for about ten minutes, you get hot and want to take your sweatshirt off. Then, you think you would be cheating if you stepped off to the side to take it off when you pull it over your head. But little did you know, that you would unconsciously stop walking as soon as the shirt is blocking your vision for a few seconds. Um yeah... it hurts when you slam into the wall behind you when the treadmill sends you flying backwards. But it's better than slamming into a piece of equipment with someone on it.
Maybe tomorrow will be better. That was just the first day back.
