It has been ten days since I took the plunge and joined the squadrons of bouncing brunettes and muscle-bound blondes.... Ten days, seven visits, only three near heart attacks.....
Visit 1: Oh god, oh god, I'm an OUTSIDER. I'm the thing that doesn't belong in that Sesame Street song! I'm like a pitted, gleaming, bioluminescent orange sitting among a pile of perfect, smooth, white eggs. Eek! Thank god I'm wearing pants. Okay, I made it. I made it up the stairs! The machine I want is open! There are people here that are worse off than I am! No one is looking at anyone else! Okay.... okay.... I can do this....Just... breathe..breathe.. wait no! Don't hyperventilate! The song blaring into my ears? C'mon baby and rescue me.....
Visit 2: In front of me, a behemoth of a man is on the treadmill, fat lurching with every heavy, plodding step, sweating huge Rorschach tests through his red shirt. I see a dragonfly, a lightbulb and a thunderhead and wonder what that says about me.
Then, watching him heave along, I think to myself "You know, I really respect that guy. He could be sitting on his couch right now... but what is he doing? He's here. Bettering himself. In front of a bunch of skinny broads. What a cool guy!" And then, I wonder if everyone else felt the same way about non-athletic people braving the space. I hope so. In my ears, Charles Wright is cheering us both on.....
What ever you do, UH! Do it good.
What ever you do, do it good. All right...
It’s not what you look like, when you’re doin´ what you’re doin´.
It’s what you’re doin´ when you’re doin´ what you look like you’re doin´! Express yourself!
If I understood what that meant I would agree completely! You sing it, Charles!
Visit 3: The Stairmaster should be renamed as the Tripmaster. Used to taking stairs two-at-a time, I trip over my feet, smoosh my toes into the step, flail, hurk, and if it's possible to stutter with one's feet instead of one's mouth.... I do it.
I look like I'm sliding on ice, like bees are attacking my ankles, like I accidentally walked on coals and broken glass.
I switch to elliptical (my favorite thing, as it turns out) and while I'm sliding along, all smooth moves and suaveness....the mental damage has been done and I feel moronic. I swear people are thinking I'm part of a movie and there's a crew somewhere secretly taping me, for there's just no way a person could bust out those moves without serious choreography or comic genius... right? No one could be THAT pathetic....
Forty five minutes later, I hop off to stretch, get a drink of water and ....wait one god damn second. Is that...sweat? Between my THIGHS? Is that crotch sweat? That's not possible. Sweet lord, I hope that's not where all that moisture came from. That's just gross. Hold on. Can the people BEHIND me see this? Can they see my crotch's Rorschach test? Oh, hell, oh HELL!
In my ears? Creedence Clearwater.
Come on the risin' wind, we're goin' up around the bend.
*sob*
Visit 4: My best friend told me I had to buy running shorts. I made snarly noises at her. I won't be running. I don't need running shorts. Who wants to see these gams? But she insisted. So, I bought running shorts. Black ones with pink stripes. And then they sat and stared at me petulantly for days like a dog I should have been walking but just let outside... and left wholly unsatisfied. But on the fourth visit? The day that God supposedly separated light from dark and placed the moon and the sun in the sky to guide us.... or presumably, to never let us escape the hatred of our thighs.... I wore the damn shorts.
Why? Because they were expensive and they made me feel guilty. And more importantly: to possibly thwart the dreaded inner-thigh sweat. And you know what? They worked. I am now a short-wearing fiend. Turns out one should always listen to best friends. They know what they're talking about. Pants be damned! Song? I want to take you hiiiiiigher! Ike and Tina, baby.
Now we're on visit seven. I have tried 4 leg-working machines, the Tripmaster, two ellipticals (I prefer the one sans crazy arm levers... they make me feel like a spastic monkey with ADD). I have figured out how hard I can push myself so I can do cardiovascular ridiculousness for an hour straight. I can touch my palms to my toes. I feel less stupid. And I ask myself a question very few women ask.....
"Hold on. Does my butt look SMALLER in these pants??!"
So now, like God, on the 7th day, I can rest. Ain't no Mountain High Enough blasting in my ears, smile on my lips, terrified no longer.
Bring it on, world.
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