And Who Said Working Out Can’t Be Fun?
I live in a highrise building filled to the brim with 20-somethings. Spilling over with women (girls) who stand before unforgiving mirrors, pinching an inch (or 1/10 of one) and proclaiming “Argghhh! I’m so fat“!
The sun is just rising. I stumble to my laundry basket and retrieve the attire.
I wiggle and push and smush myself into my grey spandex leggings, too small Under Armor sports bra, cute Nike tank (cute might not be the appropriate adjective for any tank top over a size 4), unmatched white socks (can’t tell if I push one down just a little) and my neon “running” shoes.
I run. ….to the fridge, to the phone, to catch a cab. So I figure I earned the shoes.
Tugging my cute Nike tank down – because it keeps rolling up – I throw back three Advil and head for the gym.
My favorite treadmill is in front of a window. It has a TV, FM and a view. But not only do I get to be motivated by the fit people whizzing by outside looking sexy and sweaty in a way that only professional athletes can, but I have 27 different views of my ass.
Who invented the mirror and who thought it brilliant to cover every single wall with one? I am literally boxed in by mirrors so I get to take in the joys of watching the back of my arms and my panty lines (I look like I have a second waist).
Now I know that the word “panty” conjures up images of darling little Victoria Secret numbers with “PINK” across the back. Trust me, mine would hold back the hoover dam.
As an extra bonus, I get to sorta see my toes because I cannot see them at any other time.
Here’s today’s report:
Directly behind my treadmill, positioned perfectly, is a recombant bike. This machine absolutely cracks me up because it too has a TV, stereo, cup holder, and you sit down, recline and lay back. God, I LOVE that machine! When I use it I fight the urge to look around for the server and ask for a Cosmopolitan.
Anyway, I thought I would try what I read somewhere made you develop calves to make Jessica Rabbit jealous.
And that, my friends, was to walk backwards on the treadmill.
So, I got off, slowed the speed to its very lowest, turned around and proceeded to step back onto the deck into strong, sexy, fit, walk-backwards-position.
The very nano second my blinding, neon running shoes hit the deck, I was propelled thru the air and landed upright, spread eagle facing the bike, the back of the TV catching me before I toppled over onto this poor unsuspecting kid.
His mouth was open, pulling out his ear buds, his facial expression saying “Oh that poor old lady!!! Did that really just happen??”
“I’m OK” I said and smiled as if this was part of the technique used for Jessica Rabbit calves.
With the treadmill still on behind me, I said “Have a nice day,” picked my iPod up off the floor and I limped out of the gym.
I’m sure that red safety key is still swinging in the wind.
Tomorrow, when I use the thigh master machine and wait 20 minutes for someone to come find me and lift me up and off of it, I’ll do the same. Except I’ll thank them after they carry me to my apartment.
Hull, L. (2012). And Who Said Working Out Can’t Be Fun?. Psych Central. Retrieved on January 19, 2017, from http://blogs.psychcentral.com/laughter/2012/06/and-who-said-working-out-cant-be-fun/