So I have a membership at Gold's gym. Surprising, you might think, considering I do not wear shiney spandex leotards a la Charlie's Angels when I work out. Nor do I wear a big terry cloth headband with matching wrist bands and step on the treadmill with a full face of makeup meticulously applied. And clearly I'm not a protein-shake drinking muscle-bound body builder. So I don't really fit the Gold's Gym stereotype, but they offered teachers in my district a killer membership deal a few years ago, so every afternoon around 4pm, you can find a gaggle of academic nerdy types sweating along side the veiny, muscley gym rats and permy-coifed, primary colored lycra set.
I started going again this past week, before I recommitted to humiliating myself daily in this blog. On Friday, in a rush of motivation and on my "runner's high" (yeah, I'll give you a minute to stop laughing, because I am giggling, too at the ridiculousness of it! it is so not possible to get a runner's high after 20 minutes of trotting on the treadmill) I put my name down for personal training sessions. I then scooped Ethan up from the "casual child care center" next to the front desk and went about my day, completely forgetting that my name was sitting on that list, just waiting for perky Liz to see it and call me with her triple dog dare to get in shape. Damn Liz.
She called on Saturday AM. I can already tell she's totally type A and that I'm going to want to kill her. Be prepared for entry upon entry about how much I want this woman to burn in hell for telling me what my body mass index is (code for "how damn fat I am") and for making me use the elliptical trainer on like level 10.
Anyway, I have my first session with her next Saturday at 1pm. So I celebrated today by having pancakes for breakfast. I know. Shut up.