Uuuughhhhhhhh.
So most of you have no idea what I’ve been doing with my life since I’ve been home for summer.
Since I know you’re dying to find out, I’ll fill you in on my summer festivities. Besides working and hanging out, I’ve undertaken Mission Impossible: stay in shape (not lose weight, just maintain it).
It really is harder than it sounds.
However, if you’ve been around me for .23 seconds, you know how much I love sweets. Candy, especially. So my mind decided that instead of swearing off my favorite sweets, I could indulge myself until the Good Lord calls it quits if I only put in some effort on the exercise end.
So out of pure boredom and a random stroke of spontaneity, I decided to join American Family Fitness.
Boy what a rip-off.
Every time I go to the gym, I walk through the pristinely-Windexed sliding doors with hope in my heart and the best of intentions. I proudly hand the guy at the counter my ID card and he gives me a “Good luck out there” nod as I head to the locker room to lock up my belongings. I turn up my iPod to an ear-splitting volume so everyone can hear my hardcore music as I psyche myself up for the most intense workout in the history of history. My pre-run stretches are a sure-fire sign that I mean business. I can practically hear the theme song to Rocky as I walk up the stairs to the track in my brand-new Nike running shorts and my “Just Do It” Tee. I chug a little water and sprint off down the recycled rubber path as a rousing chorus of “Gotta Get Thru This” blares on my iPod.
I even intimidate myself sometimes.
After about 1 minute of intense Asafa-Powell-sprinting-for-his-life-from-a-bear-while-also-attempting-to-break-a-world-record-esque sprinting, I’m out of commission.
I’m panting, I’m disappointed, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from over-exhaustion and heat stroke right there between the Ab Cruncher and the Stairmaster.
(I’m pretty sure it’s not healthy if your heart is successfully re-creating the drum solo to Led Zepplin’s Moby Dick in your chest. Just sayin’.)
So after a few weeks of high expectations regarding my exercise regimen, I have unfortunately gone from enthusiastic to apathetic regarding my physical health. Now my days look like this:
Get up, get dressed, drive to gym. Park the car at farthest spot from the doors imaginable next to some sketchy white van with no front bumper. Walk sadly to the sliding door, head hung in shame, sunglasses on so no one will recognize me and offer to “exercise together”. Hand the guy at the front desk my ID card. Mumble a hello. Shuffle into the locker room and lock up my stuff. Trudge up the stairs to the track. Forget to stretch. Jog once around the track to “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, pretend to get a leg cramp, and exit the track. Drink from the water fountain until the water isn’t cold anymore. Find another water fountain to quench my undying thirst. Get on elliptical. Put elliptical on highest incline. Pant away and pump my arms enthusiastically so people think I’m really into it. Disembark the machine after ten minutes. Repeat water fountain ritual. Walk over to the Stairmaster. Read all the instructions. Attempt to work the Stairmaster. End up doing a strange jumping/climbing thing on the machine while holding on for dear life. Decide I’m making a fool of myself and walk over to the free weights. Find the smallest weight and make up some arm exercises. Check out the cute guy next to me lifting weights the size of watermelons over his head no sweat. Get sort of jealous that I’m struggling with 5 lbs. while he can easily bench press my body weight. Get discouraged and trudge back to the locker room to leave. Sneak out the backdoor out of shame and embarrassment for my pathetic attempt at exercise. Call myself a failure. But decide that I probably burned enough calories to treat myself to a Venti Shaken Black Tea from Sbux. Drive across the street to Starbucks. Enter with a smile. Order Starbucks. Get drink from friendly barista. Sit down. Drink drink slowly, savoring every sip of sugary goodness. Think of how much I really like their jazzy music. Decide that the gym isn’t so bad. Leave Starbucks refreshed and rejuvenated. Go home. Shower. Lather. Rise. Repeat. Get out of Shower. Decide I want a Kit Kat. Tell myself that in order to eat the Kit Kat, I must do some crunches. Go into room. Pop in Sexy Sporty Abs DVD. Do first few exercises. Stop the exercises because I feel like my stomach will surely explode. Decide that the video girl’s abs are airbrushed and fake. Eat Kit Kat anyway.
It’s sad, and a little exaggerated, but you get the jist. Exercising is no fun. And though I am getting a little bit better at it with each gym visit, it’s still far from an enjoyable experience.
However, I’m getting myself into tip top physical shape no matter how long it takes. Just in case someone ever puts a gun to my head and tells me that they’ll only spare my life if I run a marathon.
In which case, I’ll be ready.
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