Working Out!

That's right. I started working out. Like, really working out. Going to the gym kind of working out.





You are not impressed, I know. Millions of American's edge slowly into the gym at any given time, scanning the whirling machines and fit people with largely anxious gazes. It's nothing new. But to me it is. Sign me up! I am going to turn this gum drop body into a temple of awesome-sauce.

Or so the one meeting with the personal trainer convinced me.

In my youth I was super athletic. I could pick up a sport I'd never tried and be reasonably good fairly soon. I was skinny but surprisingly strong. Also, extremely tough--which came from fighting off my older brother, something I did with great aplomb (since I caused half the scuffles--don't tell my mother). I worked out all the time because I was in one organized sport after the other. I didn't have to worry about weight as long as I was active.

Moving to San Francisco changed the ease of playing sports nearby, so I took up running and even jump roping. Instead of eating, I'd go for a hike. Instead of sitting at home, I'd go out. But then I had a kid. I couldn't go out whenever I needed to anymore, and also...well, let's just say I didn't work as hard as I could have with the baby fat issue...

And here we are. The gym. I feel like a big, fat fecker these days and I need an organized effort to turn this jiggle into a masterpiece. And I'm doing it right, too. I do weights first, because the mere effort of having muscle burns calories. After that I hit the cardio machines to burn away fat. In-and-out in a hour. That's what the trainer said.

Well, then. Sign me up to lift weights with all the guys. I am totally up for it!

 
~Let me first just change this weight from 80 pounds to 20, shall I? We have to be reasonable when starting this venture.~

To start my workout, I enter the building like a budding athlete at the top of her game. I could rock the whole place--or so my attitude suggests upon entry. I glide through the cardio area like I am eighteen again and getting ready to take the field. Up the stairs, serious as ever, ready to pump some iron.




Once in the land of machines, I do a crop dust, trying to remember which machines the trainer said to use while trying to look knowledgeable. They all kind of look the same, though, with their stacks of weights and metal arms. So I have to look at the pictures.

Step 1 of looking like you belong--do not stare at the instructions with gaping mouth and furrowed brow. Kind of a giveaway that you have absolutely no idea what you are doing.





I've been to gyms before, though, so once I figure out which machine does the stuff I'm supposed to do (arm, back, chest, etc), I settle in and eye the weights. I try not to glance around as I change the heaviness to mostly lightness. No one needs to know that lifting a feather is work for me. As soon as I start, the work I put in will be evident, and then I'll fit in.


 Yeah right. Dreaming big on that one with these spaghetti arms.

So yes, I do get a glance or two, to which I internally scoff in defense. I was a soccer player, damn it! I have an excuse for no arm strength--go back to your barbell Mr. Huge Arms.

Obviously that is me misinterpreting the glance from someone that couldn't possibly care. I'm sure the poor guy glanced over because of my sighs, or blaring music from my ipod, or my moping. Still, it seems accusatory of wasting the gym's time...

Which I probably am, but the first rule of Gym Club-- Oops. Shouldn't have mentioned...never mind.




They have a no stare policy at the gym. This is good, obviously, or people like me would be melted onto one machine or other, trying to will strength into our shaking limbs so we can do three more reps, staring with a slack jaw at someone else. I, personally, don't look at others for any reason other than that my unfocused gaze found movement. But if I don't pay attention to my gaze, I will absolutely stare. Bug-eyed and desperate to keep going, I will watch in fascination as someone lifts my body weight without effort.

My brain nudges my body--you can do that, too! If only I didn't want to bonelessly slide out of the machine and puddle on the ground. 12 more reps to go. Ugh!

The other day, after I did the weights, I decided to do the stairmaster.

You're probably thinking about this, right?



What I actually did was this:

 Maybe it's not much different, but it feels like it is. You are actually walking up stairs. You're way high in the air, walking up stairs. I did 70 flights. Not 70 stairs...70 flights. 70 floors. That is halfway up a skyscraper, isn't it? All while standing still.

The thing about real stairs is that you are actually going somewhere. If I am walking up 70 flights, I expect a beer and a great view at the top. I've earned it, haven't I? How about a sandwich? Or at least a cookie. I just did 70 floors!

I didn't get that at the gym, of course. Instead, after I reached the time goal, I half fell off the thing with a bright red face dripping with sweat. I exited the gym walking like John Wayne after a long ride. Not attractive.



Some days, though, when I don't kill myself with stationary cardio equipment, I feel like a buff rockstar leaving the gym. My muscles are tingling, I can feel my upper body muscles, and I develop that bouncing walk some men use all the time. You know the one, with your chest puffed out, and your arms pushed out from your sides to show off your glorious bulging muscles. Oh yes, I walk out to my car with the glow of intense strength.

Of course, what people see is stickly arms with waggling flab pushed out from a lumpy body. Sexy time all over the place! Jealous-much?

This elation lasts the evening. I feel great directly after I work out. When all the endorphins are pinging around my body, and I feel strong...working out is totally worth it at that time.

And then the soreness kicks in. After every time I work out, I can pick out each individual muscle. Because it hurts. Every time I move.

Ugh.

 And then I get tired. Sore and tired. And...cranky. Oh yeah, I get cranky when it hurts to move. And bitter.

Yay! I'm a ray of sunshine a day after intense muscle building. I bet everyone is jealous of my husband, poor guy.

So that's about the extent of it right now. I combat my jiggly parts by hitting the gym. I zoom around, working out, and then hobble away.

I'm totally going to have the best body ever. Really. Honest.

I'm not sure who I am trying to convince...