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Thursday, July 12, 2007

not sure if it's the thrill of victory, or that other thing about agony

I knew I was in trouble when I walked into the room, and no one said 'hello'. There were some glances over the shoulder, but no warmth imparted, despite the high temperatures. So, I did what I usually do when faced with an awkward social setting - I scanned the walls for something to read. I don't know how many times I reread the fitness schedule before I heard a particularly buff woman make some off-handed comment about what kind of woman works in a bar, because, sure it is fine for men, blah, blah, blah. And I would have went over and volunteered that I am just that kind of woman except she scared me. I could snap her with my mighty sitting on her move, being a big bar kind of woman, but did I mention the muscles? She was spared, this once, my Free to Be Me speech.

I'm an equal opportunity kind of gal.

The free commentary was the least of my worries. I have been working out with my good friend, Jen, over the past few weeks and while she is off in the wilderness, I decided that I should try one of the group exercise classes. I need lots of incentives to exercise. Like a friend. Like walking far, far away from my house. I figure unless I am hit by a car or picked up by Shrek, I have to make my way home again.

Or group exercise.

If you haven't been following along, I have an autoimmune disease that took me out of the sweaty gym arena for a time. I like to think of this as my triumphant return.

(It looks a lot like whimpering.)

We were instructed to put several steps into rows and to grab a band and two sets of weights. I grew nervous at the mention of 'steps' because I hate step aerobics and the pain they inflict on my knees. But I stayed. Out of shame.

Soon we are running and doing jumping jacks and I take a gander over at Ms. Buff Misogyny, who is chewing gum and wait - did she just blow a bubble mid-workout? Holy crap, she isn't even sweating. I knew I didn't pick a fight with her for a reason. She's a fembot. And I'm a peaceful sissy.

I survived the class, even with the running and lunges, fearful that another 'bot might run me down. (Fembots travel in packs.) I only glanced at the clock every 5 minutes and considered leaving mid knee lift slash curl. But I made it.

Now if only I could get up these stairs and go to bed. Where's my hubby when I need him?

Maybe I'll just lay here and practice my moaning...



edited to add: Much to My Sjogren has been updated too.

4 comments:

stephanie said...

I'm sweating just reading this post...Does that count? Let's say yes. All I've got for a fembot fight is "I teach teenagers, and I'm a PTA president! Take that!" Then I couldn't even run away very well; that version of me is stuck in 1983, on the 7th grade track team.

You're awesome.

stephanie said...

Did I say 1983? I meant 1981. Which is better? This is why I majored in English. No math. And no PE.

Tammy said...

I tried to comment on the latest post, but for some reason the page won't load. Anyway, I just learned that your son's name is Caden, which is cool because my son's name is Kaden. He just turned three June 25th. I'd never heard the name before (choosing it for that reason) and now I'm meeting Cadens and Kadens all over the place! I counted 4 at Tweetsie!

As for the fembots... I'm not skeered! In fact, my body and it's insulating layer of fat is probably the one thing THEY fear the most! he he Guess you could say I'm their greatest motivation? he he

Suzanne said...

That's why I exercise at our local Rec. Center instead of a real gym. I look spry and super-buff next to all of the senior citizens on the tread mills. I'm absolutely not lying: I see an ambulance out in front of the rec. at least three days a week. And it's never for me... which is good.