Getting in shape.

In my infinite wisdom AND because I am officially out of excuses, I decided at the beginning of the year it was time to get back into shape.  I didn’t jump on the New Year bandwagon and join a gym because nobody is clocking me in and out so I might as well open the window and throw out $50 a month.  I also should mention, I haven’t worked out in four years.

Thanks to Facebook tracking my every freaking keystroke, I see a “fitness challenge” at the gym where my son has gymnastics.  This is perfect because 1) it’s $200 up front and has structured classes and I am just cheap enough that $200 is a number I will not waste away.  2) It’s a class environment and every class needs needs an obese out of shape person to make them feel better about how they look.  I am more than fine being this person for now.  3) It ends in 90 days.  It ENDS means I will have a perfect body in 90 days.  That little mind game of “the end” makes a huge difference to me. 4)  You don’t actually join the gym.  My obligation ends if I want it to after the 90 days.   

So I pay my $200 and wake my bad self up at 5 am the first morning.  It’s 30 degrees with an 8000 mph wind, but I get in my car and I drive the 22 miles to the class.  I then proceed to get weighed AND measured by a very fit, very handsome man, who is half my age. 

Most women may enjoy being in this close proximity to a hottie, but mostly I just feel like I’d rather be at the gynecologist than have this perfectly proportioned man measuring my hips.    If he works with anyone name Becky, I imagine he went to her straight away with “Oh my God Becky, would you LOOK at her butt, it is so big!”  Then they proceeded to both burst into the rest of the song. 

I refuse to allow him to tell me any measurements or any numbers.  Another Jedi mind trick with myself.  I do not need to know that number.  Only that it’s getting smaller. 

Then starts what can only be described as 50 full minutes in hell.  At least 12 other people were right there with me.  At the end I wasn’t dead, but wanted to be.  I had also been choking back vomit for at least 15 minutes.  But Mr. Perfect Body didn’t have burpees in the line up, so at least I didn’t worry the entire time I was going to pee my pants.  Which is what happens if you do burpees at the end of the workout FYI.  You worry that all that jumping is going to make you pee your pants.  So glass half full right there. 

I get in the car and am home by 7:30. My husband asks me how it was, I shoot him daggers with my eyes, then shower.  I down some water and sit at my desk.  I am tired but productive.  By 9:25 I have to pee.  I should be fine, that second day will be hard, but the first day should be ok.  I stand up.  I am not ok. I am not AT ALL ok.