I joined a gym. This is a really big thing. I hate gyms. I am known to have all of the social graces of Leona Helmsley at a gym. I don’t like crowded spaces nor do I like know it alls. It has been my experience to find both at most gyms I’ve frequented. I’m a loner by nature and extremely independent and self-sufficient; so someone trying to educate me on how to lift a bus in a power squat generally prompts me to do horrible things like ask if they did too many squats and is that why they have anal leakage and therefore make them question their existence for the rest of the day. I know it’s not nice, no one ever said I was nice.
I also tend to dress like a toddler who tried to be a big stuff by dressing themselves in a pitch black room with no concept of color matching. I’m a big girl now. In every way. Whereas once I commanded a waifish figure, that of a dancer, I now have curves and by curves I mean I can count belly rolls. I’m trying to figure out how I can keep the boobs and butt and lose the belly and thighs. Then….I would be perfect. Well physically. Emotionally? One could probably quantify my personality as “strong”.
Last Saturday I finally bolstered myself up enough to meet with a trainer. In my head I was ready. I was ready to put injuries behind me and start getting better with a vengeance. I was like Good Will Hunting in therapy. Let the healing begin!!
And that was all great and nobel and so very fitting for my eternally sassy attitude until I learned something the hard way. Putting on a sports bra when one has pronounced tatas is challenging. Ones head must be inserted through the technicolored flappy straps and then one must wrestle the uber strength strap of said bra which does not latch like a normal bra over the girls so they are safely ensconced in the durable fabric of the bra. This is so we don’t knock ourselves unconscious while on the treadmill or get one of our breasts trapped in a weight machine. When one reaches a certain age, our boobs tend to wander off like unherdable cats. That’s the easy part. Taking off the bra is where the real exercise starts. One has to wriggle and jiggle to try to lever this inquisition device (surpasses my hatred of pantyhose) which invariably leaves one boob in and one out until such time that you can maneuver yourself fully out of the bra which even though you know you ordered your size is the equivalent of trying to squeeze your funbags into a onesie…you know…for an infant.
At this point my breasts have completely mutinied. The left breast is complaining like Scotty from Star Trek insisting “Captain, I’m givin ‘er all that she’s got” while the right breast is like Taylor Swift in the middle of another Kanye feud. It would very much like to be removed from this narrative. I was sweaty and semi fulfilled and nothing could bust up all my good chi and all I wanted was a shower. All. I. Wanted. What I got was busted chi and an bad temper and an inability to remove myself from a stupid piece of apparel.
Five minutes later I felt like a dog chasing my tail and very much contemplated leaving this piece of crap on permanently. I actually rationalized that if I soaped it up in the shower that would consistute proper laundering. Shower pouf..meet bra…bra…cleanse thyself. I’m a genius. I have solved every woman’s problem; now I’ll work on eliminating calories from ice cream and Oreo’s.
It became a mission from God. Simply because my Irish was up. There really is no other reason, nor does there need to be. While I realize this particular logic accounts for somewhere in the realm of 80 to 90 percent of my “issues”, if it didn’t happen there woldn’t be a blog. No normal person writes about this crap.
I’m part of a beginners fitness group which results in things like lifting 2.5 pounds and considering myself impressive because it’s more about the form than the weight. The form is the be all end all fitness goal and my trainer said my form is role mdoel status. I warned her to never make me anyone’s role model. Only the strong can survive that shit. I started last week going both Saturday and Wednesday. Yesterday morning I rose happily, feeling a sense of wellness and anticipation. I’m getting stronger. I went to the gym. I overcame my own gym issues and fears and made it a point to git it girlllll. I did it. Until I got there. The parking lot was packed and by packed I mean I had to walk three miles to get to the entrance which made me hungry. Due to the over capacity parking lot I can only assume they are giving something away. I’m hoping it’s brownies, but I will also settle for whisky. It could make the treadmill, an otherwise boring thing, very exciting indeed. I love new adventures. I walked in very excited. In my mind, I had myself convinced I was getting something chocolatey and the size of my head. It turns out it was just a bunch of people trying to work out.
Deanna Carter had a great album title way back when about shaving her legs for no reason. I shared a similar sentiment. I wrestled a sports bra for this?
But alas I did. And I will again. My beginners fitness gym is a contained in a gigantic facility but they give you an almost womb like level of separation and security. It’s a tiny room filled with the basics. There are two leg machines, two ab machines, one back machine and one arm/shoulder machine in addition to treadmills and bikes. There are people there; big and small, young and old with the one common goal of feeling better. We are in this safety zone where we can learn to do this, in my case all over again or in other cases for the very first time. There is no judgment there. We are learning to put ourselves at a top position in our own lives and how to schedule that little bit of self love in otherwise busy lives. Some of us don’t ever make time for ourselves. It’s a process of discovery which can be daunting…especially when your boobs are trapped.