I recently joined my first-ever real gym. A gym with tons of snazzy equipment, showers, lockers, wooden floors in the yoga room, TV's built into the treadmills, personal trainers, all you could imagine.
The only other gym settings I've ever been in are- my Middle School gym where I sweated out many a crappy PE class and was awkward in my cotton shorts and growing boobs. Also where I played 7th grade basketball and my Nazi coach refused to let me get my asthma inhaler during practice. Next, my High School gym where I didn't give two shits, was high on reefer most of the time, never dressed out into uniform, and got a C in PE of all classes. Damn me. And lastly, when I was twenty three'ish, I joined Curves, a circuit-training ladies workout center, where I was traumatized by body fat talk and going around in terrifying circles watching other struggling ladies just as pathetic as me run in place and attempt leg curls.
Well, I feel like royalty in my new gym. It's another all-ladies establishment but much more fancy-schmancy. When I go to work out, I am Queen Elizabeth of iPodLand, in my own world away from tending to boys' needs like finding the ketchup, away from housework, and Kroger. I keep my nearly 2 year old's sweet little face in my head, but don't have to put up with sporadic hissy fits. I'm in Utopia, that is, until I realize I still have 5 fucking minutes to go on the elliptical.
I'm a determined little grasshopper, too. I found a way to trick the machine and rest instead of stopping. That's not cheating, right? Just leaning forward a bit, alleviating some impact, keeping the same heart rate, still acing the test. It's amazing the amount of self-talk you can do in five minutes on the elliptical. I think I've decided to educate myself on the settings. I'm not an American Gladiator, after all. I'm just Heather, perfectionist employee slash mommy slash spaz. What do you want from me, Mister Elliptical? (I'm convinced it's male - it's about as demanding as my OCD boss.) I showed it what I was made of, though. Five minutes at an astounding target heart rate, doing my hop jump weird movement.. what do you call that movement? I've tried so hard to describe it to my hubby but find myself trying to physically act it out and it never comes out right, I just end up looking like I'm tripping on acid, convinced I'm bouncing off clouds or something similarly enthralling.
And my two year old just busted the gate down into the kitchen entrance. That's what I call showing equipment who's boss. True story.
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