More Gym Misadventures, for Your Reading Pleasure

The misadventures continue . . .

My observations at the gym this morning.:

Dude, work on your triceps!

1. The wall of mirrors in the class studio is like a giant funhouse mirror.  Surely my batwings are not that floppy.  (Didn't know there was a name for that underarm floppiness, did ya?)  Why does my reflection look so much larger than everyone else’s?  When I stand directly in front of the instructor, I’m quite sure the patron immediately behind me cannot see her at all. 

2. The easiest part of yoga this morning was when the instructor asked us to bend into a seated position so that our chests were touching our thighs.   Hehe.  NO problemo.  Take that skinny b*tches with your perky B cups. 

3. Every mother holds her breath when the attendant from the nursery quietly sneaks into the back of the room and scans for her target.  Today it was my turn.   Small apparently does not realize how much will power it takes for me to get to the gym in the first place. 

4. My weight loss strategy apparently entails purchasing double-dipped chocolate covered peanuts at the grocery store immediately following my workout.  And also opening them in the car on the way home.  (I needed sustenance for the 3 mile drive.)  I got chocolate on my workout shirt . . . the irony of this is not lost on me.

5.  College girls home for the summer annoy me to no end.

·      Me:  

a)  sweating like a whore in church, 

b)  trying to prevent my pants from catching fire lest my thighs rubbing together cause a spark, 

c)  learning all I ever need to know about Pink on E! because heaven forbid the gym make NBC available, 

d)  feeling constricted by my too-small sports bra, which I purchased because if I wear my actual size then I’m liable to get a black eye or bruised knees from all the boob-floppin’, 

e)  and working the elliptical next to a mouth-breather.  Lucky me.

·      College girls: 

a)  carrying cell phone at all times, 

b)  sporting brightly colored sports bra vaguely covered by off-the-shoulder Flashdance sweatshirt, 

c)  wearing Nike running shorts that show off tanned, athletic legs, 

d)  and somehow not sweating.  Perhaps because there's no actual working out taking place.

This bothers me because when I was a college girl home for the summer I hated working out.  Riding the bike to nowhere for 10 minutes made me feel like I was going . . . um, nowhere and I was morbidly afraid of falling off the back of the treadmill.

6.  I went to the gym in the evening recently; usually I go in the morning.  The gym has a foul odor at night.  It smells like an aromatic cocktail of adolescent sweat, frito breath, and feet.

7.  My girlfriend told me the other day that she couldn’t believe how strong I am.  She’s on crack.  Also, she wasn’t paying close enough attention and she missed the part where I switched to the 2.5 lb. weight.

8.  I am thankful that I know the difference between a swimsuit and a workout tank, unlike one of my fellow yogis this morning.  I had to refrain from touching her lightly on the arm while shaking my head and saying, “oh, honey, no.”

9.  You know I have a thing about toes.  (Read about my strict flip-flop policy.)  If you don’t take care of your toes, please don’t be flashing those puppies around.  I’m not saying they have to be perfectly painted at all times, but if you’ve picked at your big toe so much that your toenail looks like it’s about to be swallowed up by the toe around it, please, for the love o’ pete, wear socks. 

10.  If one more person reminds me that it’s almost bathing suit season I am going to lose my sh*t.  According to my calendar  I now have approximately 1 day in which to lose 50 lbs.  I don’t think it’s gonna happen.

Well, peeps, I hope this blog entry has made you feel a little better about yourself.  It has certainly made me feel worse about my chocolate-covered peanuts, which I will be thinking about as I sit pool-side tomorrow.  

Virtues I do NOT have.

Getting ready for church is no small feat in our house.  First of all, everyone needs to be clean.  At the same time.  In the spirit of portraying ourselves as something we generally are not, we like to show up at church freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes, looking like a wholesome, All-American family.  Occurrences of all five of us being bathed and cleanly dressed all at the same time are rare.  The boys usually bathe at night.  Small gets a Bio-Hazard Bath when he has a particularly eventful day in the diaper department, and then sporadically throughout the week.  Mommy showers sometimes.  But on Sundays, we all bathe or shower before church.

Bio-Hazard Bath . . . straight to the sink; do not pass GO.

Hubby had to go in to the office today, so the arduous task of getting everyone ready for church was left solely to me.  We needed to be at church and in Sunday School class at 9:45.  Naturally the process began at 6:45.  Small had an eventful morning – see reference above.  I stuck him in the bath first.  Large came into the bathroom when he heard all the splashing and general fun-having, so I got Small out and ran a bubble bath for Large and Medium.  Honestly, getting them ready for church was a breeze.  They bathed without splashing, dressed themselves for church, and met me downstairs for a hearty breakfast of cold cereal and gummy vitamins. 

The hard part of getting ready for church is ME.  I got everyone settled and preoccupied so I could have a few minutes of alone time to get ready.  I just colored my hair on Friday night, because I’m a party animal like that.  (Doug walked in to the bathroom and saw this: me, still dressed at 8:30 pm in my workout capris and tank top left over from the yoga class I took at 8:30 that morning, with my hair parted dramatically at 20/80 and slathered in an orangey paste.  I winked and asked him if he wanted to “hit this.”  He immediately announced that he needed a beer and took off for a friend’s house.)  Because this morning was a wash-my-hair day, my legs look like shag carpeting. 

My biggest challenge came when I put on my stockings.  I know, who wears stockings anymore?  (And who says stockings?  Well, ME, because I hate the word pantyhose.)  I decided to wear stockings this morning because my legs are so white (and hairy) that I really felt it is what God would want me to do when visiting His House.  Putting on stockings is like stuffing a sausage, and it looks just as sexy.  As usual, I stuck my thumb through the material as I was attempting to stuff that last bit of fat leg into the reinforced panty part.  I could almost hear the little threads of fabric screaming for dear life . . . “Must!  Hold!  On!  Just!  Stretch! A Little!  More!”  Nevertheless, I continued inserting my wobbly bits into the stockings and reminded myself that when I am making my weekly prayer for patience perhaps I should also pray that the hole doesn’t visibly extend below the hem of my skirt before the service is over. 

We made it to church on time, and I was able to offer my silent apologies for being so cranky last week, and AGAIN to ask for patience with myself and my family.  So I’m gonna put his out in the Universe - these are the virtues with which I need help, in no particular order:

1. the Willpower to put down the Thin Mints, for the love o’ pete.
2. a little Solitude.  Just a little.  Even just using the potty without an audience will suffice.
3. Humility when I know that chick in the convertible BMW is checkin’ out my Swagga Wagon.  Because I got it goin' on!
4. enough Patience to not get frustrated when Medium says, “um, I think I forgot to wear underwear.”
5. the Fortitude to build a strong army, even though I always get stuck with the tan guys, who are seriously outnumbered by Medium’s green guys.
6. Frugality until my replacement Starbucks gold card arrives in the mail.  Currently I’m paying cash for my caffeinated goodness.  What are we, cave men?
7. Common Sense.  If you found your yoga mat to be directly behind Cap’n Balsac (he of loose shorts and increased flexibility,) you’d move, right?  Me?  Halfway through the class before I realize my mistake. . . .
8. Sobriety.  At least until next Friday at 3:30 or so, when my girlfriend comes home from work so we can go to our Happy Place.
9. Vitality, especially at 6:45 a.m., and preferably in the form of coffee.
10. Modesty.  I’ve been told I could use some.

It seems I have plenty to work on this week.

The Zen of the Nugget.

Here’s a little nugget (pun intended) about my recent experience at yoga class.

It seems I have made a new BFF at the gym, because I know A LOT more about one of my fellow yogis than I ever wanted to know.

It all started very innocently.  I was a tad late to yoga class; it happens.  So I had to grab an open spot towards the back, and that spot just happened to be situated behind a man.  I’m sure he is a lovely individual, although I might suggest he spend some time looking for appropriate yoga-wear.  

The class worked through various poses like downward-facing dog and warrior and cobra. 

But then came the bow pose.

Are you familiar with the bow pose? 

Bow pose involves lying on your stomach, bending your knees, and then gently grabbing both your ankles with your hands so that you look like a bow and arrow, hence the name.  See how that works? 

I look JUST like this when I do it . . . .
hehe.

we were all very relaxed . . . sloooowly bend your knees . . . then geeeeently grasp your ankles with your hands . . . . feeeeeel the stretch . . . releeeeeease the tension in your body . . . .just leeeeeet it goooooo . . . now bring your gaze forward . . .

My eyes!  MY EYES!!!!!

You see, the lovely gentleman in front of me was wearing loose-fitting gym shorts, and there to the left (in case you were wondering “how’s it hangin’”) were his, um, nether-regions.  BOTH of his nether-regions.  Just layin’ there. 

HOW am I supposed to harness my chi when this guy’s hunk o’ junk is peeking at me out of his little red gym-shorts?  I could no longer hear the yoga instructor because in my head I was hearing that Mrs. Doubtfire "well, helloooooo!" voice.

It was like a train wreck . . . I REALLY wanted to look away, but my mind kept trying to tell me that surely that’s not what I’m seeing, right?  Is it?  No.  No!  Okay, maybe . . . Oh. My. Gah. 

Now I’m suffering some PTSD flashbacks, complete with squinty eyes, a mild headache, and the shakes.  It was my own personal VietNamaste.