(And, I KNOW what you're going to say about how YOU ALWAYS DO THIS and YOU'LL STOP GOING IN A WEEK and WEREN'T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE ALL BUFF BY NOW FROM THE LAST TIME YOU "STARTED GOING TO THE GYM," and let me just say: shut the frick up okay, because that REALLY hurts my feelings. But also: yeah, true that.)
Anyway, I need to tell you not about how sore my muscles are or how I plan to run a 5K in February (and that YES, it probably really will take me three months of training in order to accomplish this goal) or how I've been working my ass off but still look...not like a supermodel...
What I DO need to tell you about is my perseverance. My dedication to this task of getting fit and healthy and strong!
My absolute commitment to increased lung capacity and lower cholesterol and learning to enjoy Quaker oats!
And all this IN SPITE OF the fact that the gym to which I belong? Is ACTIVELY trying to deter me from my focus. I present to you the following three exhibits.
Exhibit A: The Beetle
I try not to speak for most women, but I know that, for me, it takes courage to enter the weight room of any given gym. These weight rooms are generally places inhabited by those toner-than-I, those that like to grunt a lot, and those who know things about carbohydrates and triglycerides. But I overcame this fear (after a week or so and teasing at the hands of my children) and marched over to the weight rack. I grabbed those three pounders like a motherfucking champ, and parked myself in front of a mirror.
I was in the middle of my first bicep curl when I felt a tingling sensation on my upper back. Did I pull something already? Were my muscles falling asleep? Atrophying?! Jesus H, being hardcore is...hard. But whatever, I shrugged it off and kept pumping that iron. The sensation started to spread, however, and soon it was up near my neck. Again, I interrupted my sculpting session and tried to pull myself together. I made SUCK IT UP SOLDIER faces at myself in the mirror. I started, for the third time, to tone my bod when, suddenly, the sensation was near my breasts and I realized exactly what the fuck was going on.
I looked down to see a beetle crawling out from inside my shirt and down my chest. What ensued was probably the equivalent of an Oscar winning interpretive dance performance which was met with glares and awkward glances by the rest of the men in the weight room.
Exhibit B: The Candy
A few days later, I stepped onto my usual treadmill. There was a piece of candy in the cup holder. I don't want to get too much into detail here, but I believe the candy was placed intentionally to tempt me. I'm not sure if it was the woman at the front desk, the old man who likes to blow his nose into his sweat rag, or Princess Candy Cane herself. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that it sat there, and--no joke--continues to sit there on that same treadmill. Every day I run and stare it down while it tempts me like a 5th of vodka to a drunk or a partycasino.com to a gambler.
And every day, I AM VICTORIOUS.
Exhibit C: The Old Man in Boxers
These small victories, however, did nothing to prepare me for what happened two days ago. I'd finished my run and was in the weight room stretching out when I noticed this guy. Actually, I noticed his shorts at first. Specifically, they were boxer shorts. Complete with a button over the crotch hole. Under these boxers was a pair of lycra biker shorts, and GOD KNOWS what else. He had a pot belly that stretched his exercise shirt to its elastic limits. That same sleeveless shirt did nothing to contain the hair emerging from the neckline, and I'd rather not even discuss the armpits, if that's alright with you.
I was so perplexed by this man that I tweeted about it immediately, as one does.
I made my way over to a weight bench while reading the hilarious responses my tweet was getting. With a smirk on my face, I set my phone down, picked up a barbell, and started to do some sort of tricep exercise.
Or so I thought.
It was at this point that Mr. Boxers-n-Spandex himself approached me to correct my form. There was touching. There was eye contact with his armpit. And there was utter humiliation. I looked into the mirror in front of me to survey the room and confirm that this was, in fact, happening. The man to my left smirked and looked down to stifle his laughter.
I thanked the man awkwardly, followed his directions for a few moments, and then fled the scene.
So tell me this, blogosphere: is the universe trying to tell me something, and if so, WHAT THE FUCK.