“My clothes are all too big! I’ve lost twelve pounds since I’ve started exercising with my Wii Fit!”
“I fluctuate a lot. But all told, in the last several months I’ve lost a net of . . . um, four.”
“Well . . . you go to the gym. You’re probably just putting on a lot of muscle weight.”
It’s a good thing my goal is to have the ass of a Brazilian supermodel. Cause if it was weight-loss, I’d totally be discouraged. (I am making progress on the Brazilian supermodel thing though. I bought a bottle of self-tanning lotion. Brazilian supermodels don’t have pasty behinds.)
Ok, to be honest, I took about a month off from any serious fitness efforts. However, with the army prom thingy looming in the not-so-distant future, I’ve decided it’s time to get my decidedly un-Brazilian ass back to the gym. Because a.) I’d really like to fit into the clingy red dress without having to duct tape my thighs together, b.) I’d like to mitigate the effects of this disease I have whereby I instantly gain thirty pounds in photographs (it’s called “Photo Bloat” and it’s real. The Captain has it too), and c.) I’m still paying for the membership.
After my first couple days back, I remembered why I stopped going. My motivation is seriously lacking. I’m bored. I’d happily blame it on the fact that the televisions in the cardio room are perpetually set to ESPN, Fox News, and the Rachael Ray show, but something tells me that’s a cop out. So rather than piss and moan, I decided to try something different. Shake things up.
Oh boy.
I didn’t want to take things too far out of my comfort zone, so I began my workout on my favorite elliptical, #6.
When I first joined the gym, the trainer who gave me the tour explained to me this “favorite machine phenomenon.” I rolled my eyes and wondered how anyone could really think one treadmill was so much better than all the other identical treadmills. Losers. Now I pout if I see someone else on #6. In my defense, I fully understand that #6 works the same as the other ellipticals. However, from #6 I can see my reflection in the office windows across the way, where the blurriness creates the illusion that the poles to exercise my upper body are somehow attached to my thighs. Which means I spend my entire twenty minutes trying to jog myself out of my imaginary leg braces, mentally crying, “Run, Forrest, run!”
What? It’s a very emotional part of that movie.
Ahem.
Anyway, I thought to change things up a bit I would try the “x-train reverse” program. My sister has mentioned she does this and she has a body to die for, so I figure it’s got to be good.
For the first five minutes of the workout I jog forward as I normally would (Run Forrest!). Then it’s time to go backward.
Oh lord.
At this point I should pause to mention that it took me four days to coordinate moving my upper and lower body in sync walking forward. Backward was not pretty.
I decide it’s best to watch my feet, as if that alone is enough to keep me from falling off the machine and making a fool of myself. After ten seconds my thighs are already starting to burn and my body is freaking out trying to determine where the hell my center of gravity went. At the end of two minutes, it’s time to jog forward again.
Now I am completely fixated on the clock, wondering how long until I have to repeat that crazy backward business. The five minutes blow by and the machine instructs me to reverse. More burning, swearing, and trying my best not to fall down.
It’s only two minutes, I tell myself. Two minutes isn’t a long time.
The two minute mark comes and goes. I’m still in reverse mode.
Maybe it gets a little longer each time. I bet now it’s three minutes.
Three minutes go by. Then five.
Did I miss it? It must be time to go forward.
I’m gasping for air. I look at my reflection. I appear to be taking a casual stroll. And those polls on my legs? Might as well be a walker. Oh yeah. Bet I’m burning a hell of a lot of calories now.
Screw this.
For the last minute and a half I jog forward. I let out happy sighs when the machine beeps with my workout summary. I descend the elliptical trainer not so much by my own power, but by the force of gravity. I wonder if there’s a club rule against napping on the couches. My ass hurts.
And I still have the rest of my workout routine to go. Shit.
In conclusion: forward good, backward bad.
You’re welcome.
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