I’ve started going to the gym. Award please.
Since I’ve been sick I haven’t been able to work out. Best. Excuse. Ever.
Now that I’m feeling better, I have no reason to let my gym membership go unused (a.k.a. my fat tax). I hit the gym this weekend with my husband, who is a total gym rat. Being married to a guy with zero body fat is hard enough, but going to the gym with him is even worse.
Walking into the gym we were greeted by several regulars, all of whom said hello to him. When their attention shifted to me, I saw pity in their eyes, but I could tell they were giving me a supportive “good for you” glance as well.
I approached the dreaded elliptical machine with hatred in my eyes and pre-emptive soreness in my thighs. I knew that machine was going to beat up on me and I was hesitant to let the torture begin.
I mounted the machine and slowly moved my feet. “Pedal faster!” it immediately shouted at me. Okay, it didn’t shout it, but the exclamation point said it all.
It was calling me out on my half-assed attempt at exercise. (Which is funny, because I certainly have more than half an ass.)
I don’t respond well to peer pressure, but I knew the machine wouldn’t register the calories I would burn if I continued at that pace, and I wanted to burn a few calories so I could eat the Sweet Tarts I had at home. So I stepped it up. Literally.
Immediately I realized I hated working out and wanted to stop. Why do people do this to themselves?
I looked over at my husband running on the treadmill. He looked like a goddamned gazelle.
I pushed on, thinking about my beloved Sweet Tarts and how I was going to spend some quality time with them when I got home. I thought that would get me through the work out.
I hid the timer with a towel, as I didn’t want to watch the seconds tick away slowly. I also wanted my towel close by.
I was already getting winded and I had barely pedaled faster, as per the machine’s instructions.
Soon I began sweating and my breath was labored. I knew I was almost done with my 30 minutes but I couldn’t resist the urge to look at the timer.
It had been 2 minutes and 53 seconds. Seriously?!
How did people do this on a regular basis? How was my husband flying through the air without so much as a drop of sweat?
The only solace I took was seeing my favorite gym-goer. He’s an old man who wears a lifting belt no matter what exercise he does. The best part? He uses the weight machines, hence, no need for the weight belt.
He looked at me and smiled and then gave me a thumbs up. I have no idea what that meant, but I can only assume he farted and his thumbs up was to show he felt better. That guy is one gassy beast, so I feel confident saying that’s the reason.
Somehow I managed to finish my workout on Beatrice, which is what I named that dreadful machine. Beatrice was less than kind to me and yelled at me to “speed up!’ more than once. She was a fricking drill sergeant.
I stepped off Beatrice and wiped her down, even though she deserved to wallow in my sweat. I stumbled getting off of her but was careful not to fall face-first into her evil twin sister, Bertha who was standing next to her. She looked equally as menacing as Beatrice and not at all forgiving. I knew they were going to talk about me when I left.
I headed to the door with my husband, proud I completed the workout, but mad I sweated enough to necessitate a shower.
‘”See you tomorrow!” my husband said to the woman at the front desk as we left. Um, what? Tomorrow? I didn’t care if I never saw Beatrice again. Apparently I was going to have to endure her screaming the following day.
One thing was for certain. I was going to need another roll of Sweet Tarts if this gym thing was going to continue.