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Is 911 on standby?
I’m going in…..to the gym.
You may recall, when I realized I most likely don’t suffer from hypothyroidism in January (boo!), that I decided I needed to do something, anything as I was feeling the pinch even in my fat pants.
I thought perhaps you’d like an update on my progress.
I’ve lost some weight!
Wait for it…..
Two pounds. Two freaking pounds. Well, 2.4 lbs if you want to get technical. Two pounds. Two months.
Can you stand it? I mean, I could gain two pounds at dinner. Actually, I could gain two pounds before dinner but maybe that’s the point, right?
The details of this journey are unimportant, and frankly, a bad exercise in simple arithmetic….plus 2, minus .5. Plus 1, minus 1. Minus 3, plus 1. Does your head hurt yet?
I did attempt exercise as well. A few times. I thought I’d give the Wii Fit another stab as it’s conveniently located in the privacy of my home and would require no investment.
Turns out, running in place barefoot and stabbing the air with my fists isn’t really my thing–though I’m sure, if given the chance, I could be a You Tube sensation. ( “Pants on the ground, pants on the ground!”) What? I will say, I’ve never seen my husband run so fast as the night I forgot to pull the blinds in the family room as I was stumbling up and down off the balance board. (Yes….stone cold sober!)
Here’s the thing I dread though. Have you ever noticed when you want to join a gym, it seems like a breach of national security for them to give out any price information on the phone or online? It’s like you need the secret handshake to find out how much it really costs. Even if you go in person, it’s like a timeshare presentation on ‘roids. You have to listen to the whole song and dance, look at every last piece of scary ass equipment, and every corner of some nondescript locker room, before you can find out the mystery price. And then! Then! You have to get the personal trainer spiel and all those packages, and if you’re me, it’s not like you can pretend you don’t NEED the personal trainer or any assistance, because clearly, clearly, one glance at the muffo de toppo exposes that LIE and demonstrates I’ve no work out mojo. And you best be good at doing math fast in your head if you want to calculate the most cost efficient deal. It’s nothing but an SAT flashback.
“Wait, do I want to do $149 down but $29.99 per month or do I want to do $99 down but $39.99 a month..so let’s see, $30 bucks a month x 12 months plus $149/12 months equals….wait…um…wait, let me start over…do you have a pen…oh! Oh! But if I take my *free* training session with Lars (a $65 value!) I can do just $44.99 per month and get one more session *free*.” (Plus the cost of a half dozen more sessions because come on, Lars is good, but he ain’t whipping no muffin top into shape in only two sessions, and if he did, it would be costing more than $65 a session because in that case, he can probably also turn water into wine! Oh shit. What do to. What to do.)
“Oh, and this deal is only good today? I see. Tomorrow the joining fee is $199 and $34.99 per month?” I would seriously rather troll the automile looking for a car deal. Where the ha-ell do they get these guys?
“NO! I will not put myself through this!” I exclaim, sweating. (See, the mere thought of joining a gym and I’m working up a good sweat. It’s working already!) I decide I’m narrowing it down to two and they WILL tell me the prices on the phone and then I will go to one, with my (FUN! NEW!) workout outfit on, give them some money, and they can show me to the treadmill–any treadmill– and then they can just run along with the other muscle people. I don’t want to see the smoothie bar or the showers. Ba bye.
The first place I call, the guy really tries to be nice and helpful. So nice, that I almost feel badly for snarking in my head.
“Well, when can I invite you in for a tour? You have to see our facility. It’s brand new and we have state of the art equipment.” Like I’d know? Or care.“It is sooo clean, you could even eat off the floor!”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Loudly.
“Seriously? It’s cleaner than my house then! Can I come over and lie down and take a nap on your floor?!”
“Ha ha ha. Good one!” Um…Did he think I was kidding?
“I’m sure it’s lovely. But as my current exercise routine includes running up and down stairs with laundry and leaping out of my seat during “Idol” screaming, “He got robbed, Simon!”, any old treadmill will do. The good news is, I rarely drop my beer when I blast out of my seat so I think my balance is pretty good. Let me put it to you this way. I have three kids five and under, and I’ve not seen the inside of a gym since around the time George Bush won his second term. If you have a treadmill and an elliptical, I’m good.”
“Heh. Oh. Okay. Well, working out is more than just cardio. I mean, it’s a good start but if you want to really burn fat and calories, the way to go is really incorporating some weight training and we have a wonderful staff of trainers here to help!” WHOA, WHOA, WHOA. Back the hell up, Biff. Who do you think you’re dealing with here? I wanna come in, put my ipod on, maybe sing Michael Buble innapropriately loud and then correct myself, move around as fast as I can without going into cardiac arrest, and then leave. No need to be a showoff with some beefcake trainer, ‘kay? Half the reason I even want to come is for a mental break from my life. I don’t wanna be yapping to no trainer about whole grains and acting like I wanna get all bikini ready. There is no bikini.There will be no bikini. There never was a bikini. I’m striving for mediocrity here. We’re talking, let’s try ”L” instead of “XL”, and then see how far Chubs can go from there. Oy.
“Do you have health insurance?”
“Yeah?” OMG, he’s afraid Fattio will hurt herself and wants to make sure I’m insured so I can’t go after the club!
“Oh, good, because then you get a discount.” Ohhh, I like discounts!
“So, how old are you?”
Oh, this is just going from bad to worse. I swear to God I’m gonna bust over there and punch him in the face if he calls me ma’am.
“I’m thirty*&^%, ” I sigh.
“Well, that’s not that old yet. You want to get in great shape so you can be there for your kids and you still have time.” ZAP. Wrong answer. I want to get in shape so I can be rocking in my capris because spring is knocking on my door. I want to finally do something for ME, Biff, ME. Because everyone gets a piece of me but me. Clearly you are a childless man, BIFF. But yeah, fine, yes, let’s do it for the children. Let’s do everything for the children! The children are the reason why I drink and eat too much in the first place! The children hanging on my legs like monkeys at the zoo, watching me pee, and not letting me finish a sentence, is what is actually driving me to go off the deep end and join a gym for a mental break. The children not finishing their mac and cheese, which sings to me from their plates, “Finish me, mama. There are starving children in China. Do it for the children!” fuels the problem. But you’re right. Capris be damned. Let’s get that LDL in order, too! And good to know at thiry&^%, I don’t have one foot in the senior center or the grave yet. Hallelujah, there is hope yet for Fatty McFatty. Pha-yew.
“So listen, how much does this cost? I’m either going to join your place or superbigass chain gym down the street. What’s it gonna be?” Seriously. I don’t care which one I join. The other gym is closer to my house, score for them. I don’t need any more obstacles. Plus, this place is next to a bar. Need I say more? I think we all know I am not above drinking in my Cherokee workout pants. ”Bye honey, I’ll be back from the gym in three hours! Don’t wait up!” Oh, that is just way too tempting. Bad, mummy, bad!
I call the other gym. The baby is crying in the background. I tell the woman I want to join a gym– tomorrow, and I wanna know how much it costs.
“Well, I hear you have a little one. Are you interested in the day care?”
“NO!” I say, a little too shrilly. “I’m joining the gym to get away from my kids. I’m coming at night!” After I say it, I feel a pang of guilt. It came out wrong. I just want an hour, one hour, a few hours a week. Is that so wrong? I’m about to tell her, I’m not a bad person, I love my kids to death, but the muffin top is taking over and beer is no longer my friend. Black is white and white is black. I need to get my gym on. NOW.
“Okay, um, it’s $19.99 a month plus $49 down and you can come on in whenever you want,” she blurts out.
OMG, either this chick has kids and totally gets it, or I scared the gym lady into cutting to the chase. SOLD! (And maybe I am a bad mummy, but I’m helluva negotiater.) Boo yah! See ya tomorrow, sister.