I swear on all things holy, I have not fallen off the treadmill!

She lives! She breathes! She walks! She talks!

You may remember, I joined the gym (Click if you missed post.) a few weeks ago. I have been several times now, and I am, indeed, still alive. I haven’t fallen off the treadmill, but I did have one close call with the elliptical. You know, it takes some degree of coordination to look over your shoulder on that thing to scope out if a treadmill has opened up behind you. That’s all I’m saying. And probably? You should wait til it completely stops before jumping off to get paper to wipe it down so you can race to the open–but not open for long– treadmill. This must be how those gym masterminds weed out the professionals from the amateurs. Nice try, gym, nice try.

But I have a bone to pick with some of you. I’ve been sharing and caring and swearing for so long on my blog, and you held out on me? I can’t believe you held out on me.

Had I only known, I would have done things so differently.

Why didn’t anyone tell me what FANTASTIC (yes, I am shouting) people watching the gym is?!

Seriously. I mean, in the realm of people watching, the gym is a grand slam. It is the Superbowl of getting down with the folk. It is, quite simply, almost too much to take in. Had I only known, I’d have been participating in these reindeer games a long time ago. And I thought the cast of characters I live with would provide plenty of blog material! A few more weeks at this sweatshop and I think I might have enough intel for a book. Or a mini-series. Daytime soap? “And these are the gym rats of our lives….will Muscle Man work up the courage to ask out Spinning Barbie? Will Fatty McFatty lose the weight in time for the reunion? And will twin of Godzilla ever get that wax job? Come back to get your gym on to find out anwers to these pressing questions and more….”

For starters though, I will share some of my fleeting observations in an open letter to the gym:

Dear Gym,

I so appreciate you welcoming me into the fold. I do. One swipe of my plastic and just like that–I became a member of the “club”. (Along with 5500 other lucky ducks.) The tag thingy for my key chain screams to the world, “I’m in! I belong!” (Or, it may prompt others to wonder what exactly I DO at the gym to earn me that muffin top. It should be color coded for new members–like a probationary period–so people could look at it and be all, “Aha! She’s new! She has hope yet.” and then they could pat me on the shoulder and say things like, “You keep trying, honey!”) It takes a village to work the muffin top, you know. (It certainly took a village to get me into this mess…three pregnancies, one Italian husband who’s a fierce cook, the boy who sells me 30 packs, those devilish Girl Scouts….Okay, okay. It’s pretty much MY fault.)

First, the positives. I adore the layout of the gym. It must have taken superior planning and foresight for you to put the treadmills up high on a platform overlooking the ellipticals and the entire weight room for the amusement of the walkers/runners/hausfrau posers. The machines–two thumbs up. If a techno challenged, workout averse, klutzy gal can figure out how to use them, props to you. But….and this is a big but….they’ve got some nerve asking me how much I weigh when we just met! How ’bout buy me dinner first before you get that personal, hey machine? The hubs doesn’t even know the lbs and he keeps me in Merona and enchiladas. Boundaries.

A few helpful observations and suggestions though, if I may, now that I’m part of the “family”?

First, to the portly dude lifting less weights than the spry granny….I’m totally onto you. When the smoking hot chick with rocking abs walks by, be careful you don’t get whiplash. The art of subtlety cannot be taught, but really, you should try. And maybe close your mouth. It’s….a little disturbing. (Like, if I bust you again, I might feel compelled to write down your license plate number just in case.) What? You never know! I can understand you wanting to sneak a peek, but the operative word, is sneak. It’s not gawk a peek or leer a peek. If you can’t be sneaking, well then… don’t be peeking. Also, the Golden Girl kicked your ass, so…time to kick it up a notch. (Of course, her hubs, Andy Rooney, dusted me on the treadmill, so who the hell am I?)

Which, leads me to my next point. How can I put this? I’m a little shocked at the amount of chunky monkeys at the gym. Now, I like to walk among my people, literally, but um, I’m left to wonder…..if they keep coming to the gym and are still rocking the top and getting jiggly while they wiggly, what will become of ME in a few months? I know I’m not going to go from flab to fab right away, but frankly, if there’s no mean change in the top de la muffin, what is the point? (Lower cholesterol? Stronger heart? Yeah, yeah. But what does that have to do with my capris? Come on.)

Finally, we need to talk about tv programming. Namely, which brain surgeon is charged with the selections? While I love, love, LOVE,  that I have my very own mini tv to keep up with breaking news, who Ne Ne’s daddy is, and my old friend, Doug Heffernan (I love you, man!), I could really do without the beer and burger ads. Is it your policy to taunt your members as they gasp for breath? Is it? Because flashing a frosty, golden hued beverage six inches from my sweaty noggin, the very beverage that helped drive me to this state of muffintoposity, is rather cruel, doncha think? Not cool. Not cool at all. However, should this have been a test of my mental fortitude….I win! I win, I win, I win!

Bet your berry smoothie, I will be back.

Regards,

Muffintopmommy

OH, and p.s. I think your scale is broken. There is NO way I could weigh that! Please fix immediately. Thank you.