I’m stalking a trainer who is rejecting me. My name is loser.
Posted on May 19, 2012
Apparently in my quest to have it all, I’ve lost my mind and my dignity.
Over the past 24 hours, I’ve been stalking a local fitness guru who runs a workshop with the words “Boot Camp” in its title. What am I, completely psychotic?
“Desperate” may be the better adjective. “Shameless” also comes to mind.
I mean, why not try to have work/life balance and the ability to fit into the majority of the clothes in my closet? Isn’t that a reasonable goal?
I’m not going to try to speak for anyone else, but once I became a mom, I didn’t need to spend a moment of time coming up with excuses not to exercise because I suddenly didn’t have a single moment.
Yeah, I know, not having time to come up with an excuse is an excuse. Shut your skinny toned mouth. But that’s really how it feels. From the moment I drag my saggy butt out of bed at various assorted times of the middle of the night to middle of the morning, I am going.
Since I’m doing a job share, I spend half my week answering to bosses who poop on me and cry when I don’t respond quickly enough.
The other half of the week, I’m home with my beautiful babies. (HAHAHA! Just kidding, real bosses! I heart you! Note: This is how to get your job share revoked.)
So, like I said, I’ve got a lot going on. But I’ve reached a wall. As the temperature has risen and my waistline has so not receded, my impatience and frustration have bubbled over and threatened to kill someone or something.
Something (other than the buttons on my clothes) really has to give.
I labor climbing the stairs. My knees ache, my ankles creak, my back cries out for the Extra-Strength Tylenol. I can’t bring the wine glass to my lips as deftly as I once did.
Yes, people, this is a crisis.
It didn’t used to be this way. Of course it didn’t. Long ago, in a galaxy 3,000 miles away called San Diego, I was in the best, single, lonely shape of my life.
My friend Dumb and I rocked the reformer Pilates machine once a week for a grueling 50 minutes. Our trainer possibly was Nipple Nazi’s distant cousin, Anarchist Anna. She beat us into toned submission, and we slithered from each session exhausted and already sore.
Then we spent a week rejoicing in her magic, until it was time to slug back reluctantly. She put up with a lot. How I miss her. (Ironically, she moved to North Carolina, but on the opposite side of my state. The moment we win the lottery, I’m paying to fly her over once a week.)
So, here I sit, finding time to moan about my out-of-shapeness online but too lazy to dash back downstairs to get my ice cold Diet Coke sitting on the counter. What a loser.
If I lost an ounce every time I thought about how many pounds I need to lose, I’d be anorexic. Not that that’s my goal.
Anyone who knows me is well aware the only way this chick can become anorexic is if all sources of food are locked with locks that require the cracking of algebraic formulas to be opened. (Maybe that’s what I need to do…)
So, this post is more like a heads up.
If the object of my stalking ever replies (oh my God, I’m being rejected by someone whose job in life is to reform slackers like me!!!), I’ll be getting up at 5 a.m. this Tuesday (pause to allow for laughter to subside) and getting my butt kicked.
Hopefully into a smaller, more toned shape. Stay tuned.
I wonder if Dunkin Donuts opens at 5…