I went to the gym this week. Twice.
I wouldn’t have gone once if my gym buddy hadn’t forced me to, and if the Two Year Old hadn’t developed a hard and fast love for the playground in the gym’s childcare that one time I went in the Summer.
Day one, I told the kid, “Hey, I don’t think we are going to the gym…Mommy has a lot to get done…” and he started screaming and crying hysterically.
“YETS GO TO DA GYM! I WANT TO GO TO DA GYM! AHHHHH!”
No one needs to pay real money for a personal trainer. Just invite my kid to go with you to the gym and TRY to get out of it. Just try.
I don’t know how I got on this fitness journey. Like most things in my life, I signed up on a whim and now the rest of humanity is dragging me on for a ride. I tried to get out of it again today. AGAIN I was too busy/tired to go. This is why I have a gym buddy. She gave me a sad story about already being dressed for the 10 o clock class at 7:15. I felt bad, so I went. Classic case of peer pressure. Good thing my friends are just addicted to fitness.
Today’s class was called “Body Blast” and I was already sore from the class my two year old dragged me to YESTERDAY which was called “Power Pilates”.
I thought “POWER PILATES” was a scary enough name, but “BODY BLAST” was terrifying. I think the main reason I tried to get out of going today was fear. I was afraid my poor abs would revolt and I would just be there on the floor, motionless, while around me 80 year old women with biceps crunched their way into glory. It’s happened before. It hurts my pride. I love my pride and I hate it when it gets hurt. I hate it more than burpees.
That’s a lie. I hate burpees more.
Anyway I went. As I stood outside the gym door I started chatting with my friend about the terrors of “BODY BLAST”. The class description was alarmingly vague. It just said something about high intensity twenty second somethings. As I talked about my fear of high intensity anything, I discovered that the teacher was standing right next to me. She turned to tell me that we would be doing “crazy things” but we would just need a mat and some heavy weights.
“Heavy? Heavy weights? What is a heavy weight?” I asked, gripping my store-bought water bottle until it made a crunch (the fancy reusable water bottle I purchased to use at the gym smells weird now and I’m afraid of that too)(but not as much as heavy weights).
She eyed me and said, “What do you usually use?”
I decided my pride was already mortally wounded and started planning the funeral. I bravely said, “None. I usually use NONE.”
She said, “Five pounds. Don’t do ten.”
This proved how little she knew me. I wasn’t even tempted to use ten. I was VERY tempted to use 2.5 but by that point my pride proved it is impossible to kill and it forced me to grab the five pounders.
I don’t remember what happened for the next hour, I think I have post traumatic stress disorder. I know my pride does. I DO remember at one point we were doing jumping jack push-up cartwheels or SOMETHING and the song, “What Does The Fox Say?” came on.
I can promise you I lost it and started laughing hysterically. I almost fell on the floor because at that point my legs were unstable. That song almost killed me.
I survived the class and do you know what? I feel a major sense of accomplishment. I also feel Hope for Smaller Pants because my instructor promised that an hour of that nonsense was worth four hours of regular cardio. AND NOW that I am working so hard, I don’t want to mess it up by eating ice cream (although ice cream sounds delicious and I could four gallons of it right now). This could be good.
I know it’s only been two days, but two days is better than NO days and I am going to celebrate. I’ve just been thinking, “How many things do we skip out on because we let our pride boss us around?” Maybe my sad two day story will make someone else feel like they can conquer pride and accomplish something they’ve been wanting to do but have been too afraid to try. Something is better than nothing (unless we are talking about mosquitoes) (which we are not).
Okay do you know what else I am thinking? What kind of PANTS can I wear that will keep from falling down when I have to do “legs in the air things”? All the cool ladies at the gym are wearing very tight pants, and I really don’t like wearing tight pants…mostly because I REALLY like to wear regular underwear.