And so it begins

Photo credit: Someecards.com

There are various catalysts to an official diet kick-off. Sometimes it's a beach trip coming up, an awful breakup, or having hit a ceiling weight-wise that made you cringe. And then there is the old favorite: the wedding. I wish my impending nuptials were the only thing kicking my bootah into gear, but the truth is that my twin loves of cooking and eating have taken their toll. I have a particular talent. If I could take it to the bank I would be Scrooge McDuck, skiing on my mountains of gold coins. I am very, very good at gaining weight. So, I bit the bullet and joined a gym.

As a part of the new membership, I "got to" sit down with one of their trainers for a full evaluation. For an hour. Jarrett brought me into his little office and asked me why I wanted to get back in shape, why was I there? I replied that I wanted to kill the little gnomes that go into my closet at night and sew my clothes smaller. Thankfully, he laughed, and I felt comfortable with this beefed-up stranger. We talked about my job, my family, how I like to work out, if I ever work out, why am I not working out, my goals, my "support system" (basically my poor, unfortunate fiancé) and it went on. But you know what? Actually sitting down for that stretch of time and talking about it helped. Even though it also involved being told I need to take, like, 18 capsules of fish oil a day. (We'll see how that part goes, Jarrett.)

Bolstered by my bravery after having just gone with a young, muscular guy to step on a scale and let him read the number out loud, I charged into the cardio room. I got on what appeared to be an elliptical and quickly realized there were no towels. Crap. I already messed up at doing gym. Aha! A little refrigerator with cool towels in it! I put my bag on the machine and confidently swung the tiny door open and grabbed a towel. Which started dripping. Did I mention this fridge was at the very front of the room? So, now, under the 20 tvs where everyone is looking, I was pretending to wipe my hands with this scented, soggy washcloth. As if my machine had been covered in jello and I just needed to wipe up before working out.

I returned to my machine and threw the wet mess on the ground because of course I couldn't find anything but garbage cans in the room. Music on, water bottle in holder, I started to move. And instantly ached. This machine was no ordinary elliptical. I was effectively doing high knee raises. Girl, it was completely vertical. But I had been doing gym so badly that I had to play it off like this was my machine. This is where I always go, and I live on this machine, and everyone wishes they were as good at this machine as I was. But I slowly realized two things: 1) no amount of shame-induced will-power was going to keep my legs moving at this rate for long, and 2) I was the only person in the whole room on that type of "elliptical." Everyone knew about this madness but me.

Reminding myself that I was a 28 year-old woman, who had paid good money to use this gym, and had every right to misuse equipment, I got off and moved to a more familiar elliptical. Sweet relief, this one I understood. And I managed to stay on for a solid 35 minutes before my legs were all "we're stopping even if you don't and you're going to be pretty embarrassed when we make you face plant in a minute." Fully drenched in sweat, I dismounted and walked like one of those old cowboys going into a saloon, all the way to my car.

Day 1: check.

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