Adventures at the Gym: Day Two

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 7^th 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
that's closest.

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! 

Adventures at the Gym: Day One

The new gym in our town has finally opened its doors. 

Goody.

Can I take this on the
treadmill with me?

My girlfriend Laura and I decided to go over there together this morning, as both of us were feeling first-day-of-school jitters.  My jitters may have also been a result of excessive coffee consumption.  In fact, Laura made a joke about the juice bar having a Starbucks and I GOT ALL EXCITED!!! until I realized she was making a joke.  We don’t joke about the Starbucks, Laura.

We finished the tour and went our separate ways.  I stayed with our tour guide and my new Beefcake Boyfriend, Wes, who replaces my former Beefcake Boyfriend, Sean (owner of the sassy red leather bag that he claims belongs to the woman with whom he shares a desk.)  Here’s the thing though; I was all witty and charming when I was signing paperwork in order to join.  I am hateful and mean when it comes time to actually work out. 

Wes took me to a torture chamber equipped with floor-to-ceiling mirrors which now have my sweaty handprints streaking down them.  Picture me as a high-healed, adolescent, poor-decision-maker in a slasher film, trying to claw my way out of a precarious situation and leaving bloody handprints on a wall in an effort to save my very life.  It’s the same, except with sweat.  Because he had me do so many squats, it now hurts to pee.  I’m probably going to develop a urinary tract infection because I’ve been “holding it” since 9 am, but it’ll all be worth it if I don’t have to do another squat. 

Working out does not bring out the best in me.  I’m sure that Wes is a very nice young man.  And for his sake, I hope he has high self-esteem, because I am NOT very nice.

BoyMommy!  Are you all right?
Are you all right?

In fact, I told him that I hate him. 

I actually used those words.  “I hate you.”  And I said it more than once.  It was not my finest moment.  I even thought about flicking him off, except I was trying to concentrate on not rolling across the floor courtesy of a certain giant medicine ball.   The other patrons who just happened to be working out in the same torture chamber were staring at me, no doubt wondering if and when Wes would begin performing CPR, given that my face was beet red and my body was so shocked by the threat of physical activity that it was actually refusing to sweat.  That ain’t right. 

Furthermore, I could not speak in complete sentences.  “I’m.  Gonna.  Just.  Go.  Getta.  Sippa.  Water.”  I’m pretty sure that’s an early warning sign for Stroke. 

Laura is in great shape.  It could be – and I’m just throwin’ this out as a possibility – but it could be because she can do arm exercises with weights heavier than my infant.  Or maybe because she doesn’t eat Hershey Kisses for breakfast.  OR MAYBE because she doesn’t leave the gym and drive directly to Starbucks, where she orders a Venti Peppermint Mocha. 

If I have to give up my Starbucks, I may just lose the will to live. 

I'm, like, a comedian.

See?  Look how cute I look!
But guess what?  CAN'T hit
a golf ball. . . . 

A new gym is opening near our house, so I went to the pre-registration office yesterday to see what kind of deal I could get on a membership.  My sister-in-law, BooBoo, called as I was driving, (but worry not, Oprah; it was hands-free,) so I had to endure her don’t-do-it taunts and the jabs about me not being able to find a workout cardigan, which was followed by a conversation about how she should take up tennis because she looks really cute in those little tennis skirts, and I should take up golf because I can totally rock a little golf skort and a cardigan.  Because I own 18 cardigans.  Yes, I counted.  Don’t judge me. 

As you know, I don’t like to sweat, so even getting to the sales office was an accomplishment.  (It was 60 degrees yesterday and I was wearing the sexiest of  mommy uniforms - a sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, so I was SWEATING already.  That constitutes a workout, yes?)  I walked in and was greeted by Sean, your run-of-the mill beefcake sales representative.  I noticed a red leather tote next to his desk, so naturally I asked him, “is that your bag?  I like it!  It’s SASSY!”  Turns out he shares a desk with a female employee.  Or so he says. 

I sat down and rifled through my own bag for something with which to entertain Medium.  What I found:

• Diapers/wipes/butt cream
• three pacifiers
• coupons for Starbucks/Kohls/Wegmans/Lands’ End/Children’s Place/the Jesus Bookstore
• my wallet
• the Hooter Hider
• a quarter
• crayons (seven of which are yellow) 
• sunglasses
• a BOB book
• Mommy’s Medicine Pack (Epi-Pen, inhaler, Benadryl, Burts Bees, Dramamine, Neosporin, Band-Aids, two barrettes, and a ponytail holder)
• two watches
• three plastic blocks
• a teether
• a wool hat
• gas medicine (for the BABY, not me) 
• wet naps
• two smooshed chocolate chip cookies
• a mini-version of the Guinness Book of World Records 
• 16 silly bands (the magnum opus of the devil, I swear.)
• last week’s list
• last month’s Costco coupons
• a lipstick case with no lipstick (in fact, it's NEVER held lipstick.  I just carry it around.)
• and a plastic dinosaur 

[Private message: Pipe down, O’Neal, I know what you’re thinking.]

Medium settled on my iphone.  I had to steer him away from the Chris Farley app.  The boys like to listen to Chris Farley say, a la Tommy Boy, “Brothers don’t shake hands!  Brothers gotta hug!”  

While hilarious, it’s not entirely appropriate for Jack to be repeatedly pressing the link that says, “No offense, but if I sent a picture of your mom to some of my buddies at school, she’d definitely be Boner of the Month.”  So instead I let him play Angry Birds so he can catapult our feathered friends at body-less pigs.  And here.  Hold this plastic dinosaur.

Sean-the-Beefcake says, “so tell me what your experience is.  What do you like to do?  What do you not like to do?”

“Well,” I reply, “I don't like to work out.  I like to eat.”  Hehe.

“You’re funny!  Are you, like, a comedian?”  Oh, Sean.  You flatter me.

“No, but I DO have my own blog!”  Wink, click-click, and shooting pistol finger.

Aaaaaannnnnd . . . . scene!

Thank you.  Thank you very much!  I'll be here all week!  Don't forget to tip your waitresses.