I keep meaning to write you a long and wordy post about how I'm ok and flooded with love and realizing the difference between wants and needs.
Instead, tonight I will regale you with stories from the gym. Or as I playfully love to call it...well. Hell.
I keep hoping I'm going to wake up magically one day and be one of those people who just loooooooves to work out. Now check it. I have in fact lost 87 pounds from my highest point. Across those pounds, I have tried walking. Jogging. Running. Pilates. Yoga Booty Ballet. YMCA. Curves. Yoga. And lately...Lucille Roberts. Because it's 20 bucks a month, around the corner from my apartment, and yes, I am now at the point in which I need to be toning and doing cardio in addition to learning fries and pizza a well-rounded meal do not make.
And even though I love how I feel AFTER I work out, and occasionally I love that great warm spread in my chest that comes with breaking a truly remarkable stride...I do NOT love the act of working out. For me, I look to the gym how many people look at their ex-spouse. Specifically if a marriage shattered with kids in tact. Everything is done politely, but with gritted teeth and bruised egos. Y'know. For...the kids.
Only for me, the kids happen to be my multiple chins, my jiggling arms, my buddha belly, and my thunder thighs.
On my first morning at the gym, I was a solid 7 minutes into my QT with the elliptical when a very polite woman approached my machine, demanding it was her turn. An obvious rookie, I hadn't realized when I signed up for a machine, it would do me some good to make sure I got on the right one. The silly part of this story is that amidst her yelling, (all in Spanish, to boot) no less than 4 machines stood empty. The kind woman next to me finally relinquished control of her machine only after I screeched "IT'S MY FIRST DAY. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY?!"
The past two weeks have been relatively uneventful. I'm learning the quieter times when I don't have to fight for machines and can steer clear of those directly in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors.
Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? There is NOTHING I look forward to more than planting myself in front of a mirror and watching the sweat pour and my face turn into a veritable Ally Tomato.
And then today rolled around. After a weekend of overindulging in birthday cake (for me! for America!) and beer and wine and burgers and cheese and sushi and pizza and gelato, I shimmied myself into my favorite pair of part lycra (aaaaallllll comfort) pants and headed to see good ole Lucille. 2 miles on a bike had me good and revved up for 40 minutes of "let's see what I can do!" on the treadmill. Well. 3.5 miles is apparently what I can do - 2.5 of them at an actual run. Go me, right?
Right.
Until it was time to get off the treadmill. My feet hit that nice and still and steady ground aaaaaand...I fell. Right on over. Yup. I did that. And I mean, I couldn't help but laugh because what else do you do when you appear drunk at a gym at 10 in the morning?
It's fine. I'm not bitching. I'm just aware I'm never going to love this modern torture chamber called the gym. But I'll keep on going.
Y'know. For the kids.
3 comments:
I'm proud of you! I HATE working out as well and the boyfriend has to drag me kicking and screaming (almost literally) every time we go. But it is good, and I'm glad you are getting where you want to be. Much love.
One of my co-workers told me that she doesn't run for a workout, she runs because she loves it. This is in the Italian summertime heat, no less. I think she's on Zoloft.
We need to be in the same place to hike together. Now that's what I call enjoyable exercise!
Once I got over the initial feeling of wanting to throw up, I found that I actually liked the elliptical machines after a while. And it's harder to fall off those. ;)
Of course, I haven't really worked out in about three years, since I got pregnant, though trying to keep up with a two-year-old presents itself with challenges of its own (most of them NOT aerobic). And bad food choices are EVERYWHERE, so I totally hear ya on that.
You'll find a thing you like, and in the meantime, you can tell the crazy gym lady to step off. Challenge her to a battle of wits. You'd win every time.
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