I did it. I returned to the gym even though I can’t walk down the stairs without cringing and sitting on the potty requires a freefall of about 12 inches.
The thing is, I still hate Wes. I have decided that my Beefcake Boyfriend has no concept of the fact that this body has birthed and nourished three babies, and I have struggled with my weight since 7th grade. (Also known as the last time I wore a belt.) I am not interested in becoming a body builder or even becoming a size 8. My primary goal is to adopt a healthier lifestyle that includes better eating and better fitness. I do not need my Beefcake Boyfriend to “motivate” me by talking sh*t, threatening to make me do 300 of whatever torture he’s subjecting upon me, or questioning my level of determination and dedication, because I am not above b*tch-slapping a 6’2” personal trainer.
|It would be a good idea|
to locate ALL of these and
then choose the equipment
Because of my experience in the torture chamber the other day, I now walk like I have Parkinson’s Disease. My legs are like jello. Jello is for eating; not for leg analogies. You know that feeling you get when you step off of the people mover at the airport terminal back onto the regular floor? That’s how my legs feel, except with much more pain and crampiness. My feet move about as if independent of the rest of my body. I’m like a marionette.
Today I decided to take it easy, but I didn’t want to break my momentum. I really want going to the gym to become a habit. I decided on the elliptical machine – I could get a decent cardio workout, loosen up my leg muscles a bit, and, as an added bonus, I could learn everything I ever wanted to know about Jennifer Lopez on Behind the Music. I hopped on and began punching all the necessary info into the machine – the duration I planned to work out, the level, and my weight.
The default on the weight part is 150. That would be nice and all, but I really needed to be honest, so I pushed the button in order to adjust the weight. The sensor moved by one pound. So I pressed the button again, and again the sensor moved by only one pound. So I pressed the button and held it, hoping it would continue moving lest I spend my entire 45 minute workout pressing the button in order to get it on the correct weight. Unfortunately, you have to press the button over and over and over and over and over and over and over in order to adjust it because it only moves by one friggin' pound at a time.
Thaaaaaat’s charming. A little beep for every. single. pound. One after another. Just beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, etc.
I don’t think I need to tell you that every beep was for a pound by which I needed to increase. If you thought, even for a split second, that each beep represented a DECREASE in my weight from 150, then
A) you’ve never seen a photo of me
B) you don’t actually know me
C) you are now eligible to be my new BFF
I’m not obese (despite what my Wii Mii says – that little meanie.) But I am, admittedly, a good hunk o’ woman.
|Wait! I'm cheap . . . NOT free.|
I wanted to be honest about my weight because I’m secretly afraid that if I lie, the machine will push me too hard and I will wake up on the floor of the gym with a particular Beefcake yelling, “Clear!” and trying to feel me up with the defibrillator paddles. Everyone knows that if you want to see “the girls” you have to buy me dinner first.
That being said, I did the elliptical for 45 minutes, caught up on my Jlo, and avoided having CPR performed upon my lifeless body. Soooooo . . . success. Victory is mine!