EXERCIST

I recently decided it was time to get back into an exercise routine after a long hiatus.  I used to be extremely in shape, ate right, and took care of myself.  It was easy because I had a workout routine that I loved.  Then I made the mistake of taking a friend with me and she ruined it by being adorable and charming and the instructor fell for her and became irritatingly creepy.  I had to stop going slightly because I feared for her safety but mostly because he wasn’t offering me the correct compensation for information on her daily routine and whereabouts.  I don’t sell my friends out for free, you know. 

Once I stopped working out daily, it was very easy not to go back.  Then I went on to discover alcohol, fried foods, and NetFlix.  Turns out I liked these things.  A lot.  So my jeans got tighter, my abs got softer, and my thighs got thicker.  But, hey, I’m a bright side kind of girl so I chose to focus on the fact that my boobs got bigger too. My husband liked that part of it a lot and didn’t seem to mind me a bit squishier so I was content in my new lifestyle.  However, I inevitably started to feel tired and somewhat depressed and I knew a big portion of it was the fact that I wasn’t exercising.  So I started to turn over ideas in my head as to what I could do that I would love as much as I had once loved kickboxing.  I didn't know what I might try.  The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t taking my cute friend with me this time around. 

I knew it would be hard to find something that would keep my interest and not feel like exercise so my ears perked up when a coworker mentioned going to a barre class.  Barre?  Sounds right up my alley.  How does this work?  Do we do squats and get rewarded with wine?  Fireball after pushups?  It was spelled weird but I just assumed my coworker was trying to make it sound fancy.  So off we went. 

This was NOT what I expected.  There were no bartenders and chicken strips.  No lovable hammered friends who would FaceTime me at 3 am.  And was that headband made out of hemp?  No, no.  This wasn’t right at all.  I felt dizzy and confused and for all of the wrong reasons.  But I’m tough so I figured I’d give it a chance and stick it out.

The instructor was super-annoying.  She had…what do you call that?  Oh yeah…energy.  She talked.  A lot.  And I wanted to choke her.  A lot. She kept coming over to me and showing me what I was doing wrong.  It seemed like she only came over to correct me which was embarrassing and I was getting angrier by the second.  “See?  Bend further down.  Do you feel that burn?”  I answered her first in my head, “No.  What I feel is my thong riding up my crotch, your breath in my face, and if you don’t step back out of my personal space, I will punch you.”  But out loud, I said, “Sure.  Thank you.”  I turned to my coworker, rolled my eyes, and went back to doing exactly what I was doing before.  Then, suddenly, as my muscles burned and I’m pretty sure even the top of my head was sweating, I had hope.  I smelled margaritas.  I knew it!!!  I knew there would be alcohol with a name like barre!  I looked around frantically.  Where’s that coming from?  And then reality set in… “OMG!!  It’s me! It’s coming from my pores!”  I was literally sweating out last night’s poor decisions.

After that experience, I discovered quickly that barre wasn’t really for me.  What else could I try?  I discovered a gym that formed their workouts in a group personal training atmosphere.  That’s interesting.  Maybe in a small group I’d feel some sense of accountability.  So I signed up.  I knew when I walked in that I was probably in over my head.  I could tell this by the chiseled bodies, displays of protein powder, and overall sense of enthusiasm about spending the next hour torturing their bodies.  But, nevertheless, I was going to give it a shot.  In walked the instructor.  This wasn’t the high-energy nagging Antichrist from barre.  Oh, no.  This guy was smoking hot!  I suddenly had a little burst of energy, skipped to the treadmill closest to him and got ready to bat my eyes and ask for help with every exercise that we did. 

So, off we went.  They had treadmills, rowers, and a weight room.  I started on the treadmill because it was the most familiar.  Okay, it was the only thing familiar to me.  They had three different levels:  Runners, joggers, and power walkers.  Yep, that’s me.  The last one on the list.  Like the last one picked for dodgeball.  But I suppose I’d rather be the kid in last place than the one who falls on her face trying to run when I know I’m about as coordinated as a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. 

About 30 minutes in, after deciding that I could probably jog for a little while, I got a cramp.  Not a bad one, but bad enough to step off the treadmill and let the cute trainer massage it.  He was a good sport and even laughed when I told him that it was actually my inner thigh that I needed him to rub. 

I had enough of the treadmill after that so it was off to the weight room for me.  This trainer was a girl.  Boo.  But she was nice enough and helpful so I pushed through despite her ovarian shortcomings.  Each station had a set of weights and various other equipment that looked like something out of Fifty Shades of Grey.  We were apparently only using the weights on this particular day.  Bummer.  Lady trainer showed me an exercise that I chose to do without the weights.  Upon seeing this, she came over and said she’d prefer me to use the weights as they would help me balance.  She handed me two 10-pound weights.  I started the exercise, my eyes grew wide, and I put them down immediately.  “Nope.  My spaghetti arms won’t be using these today.”  She smiled sweetly and, forever helpful, said, “Don’t worry, we have 5-pound weights too.  They’re over there.”  She pointed to the other side of the weight room.  You know, on the special rack, covered in dust, because nobody in this place actually uses those.   So, I hung my head and started the walk of shame through the swarm of fit, chiseled bodies to grab my 5 pound weights like the only kid at camp who has to wear a life jacket on the paddle boat ride and returned to my station. 

Hot trainer, sensing my draining motivation, came to the rescue.  We were going to do squats together.  Yay!  I positioned myself slightly behind him so I could watch his form.  He told me to stick my butt out a little bit more and smirked at me when I creepily asked him to show me just one more time.  I managed to make it through the rest of the painful workout on sheer stubbornness while fantasizing about the 12 inch kettle bell and giant pair of BOSU balls that I was sure made up the workout equipment beneath his spandex.  I thanked him for the workout and left in a hurry, nervous that I might puke on his now shiny, perfect muscles if I hung around for too long. 

I did feel good when I got home though.  Who doesn’t love that post-workout feeling?  You know, the legs on fire, sweat running down my cleavage, I just touched the same weights as 500 people who don’t wash their hands after taking a shit kind of feeling.  I’d jump in the shower immediately if I didn’t have to wait for the sweat to stop pouring out of my body in order to peel off the layer of spandex that I am now convinced is super glued to my skin.  And I don’t even want to think about how deep of a crevice I will have to pull my underwear out of at this point.  It might be gone for good.    

So, after all of this, I’ve learned a valuable lesson.  I’m getting older.  This gym thing just might not be for me anymore.  I’m not cut out for a super healthy lifestyle.  I’ve decided to take a break from the gym and exercise at home from the comfort of my recliner while eating cookies and watching Shaun T sweat it out on my DVR.  That should get my heart pumping enough to call it cardio.  And carrying my lazy ass up to bed every night surely counts as weightlifting.  It’s really all about perspective.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bar class to attend.