So I've joined the army of resolutionists. I admit it. A regular January warrior. I didn't plan on being one but it snuck up on me unexpectedly. In the form of my husband suggesting we start back up again. In other words, it wasn't even my idea, my resolution, as pathetic as that is.
My workouts had been flagging for months when the gym decided to do a large overhaul. The renovation left we gym rats to elipticize and treadmillerize in a space about as big as the average bathroom. Where you could smell the guy sweating five machines down. My motivation dropped to negative five and my couch attendance reached an all time high.
Now, however, we've got a shiny, new beautiful facility and it's actually a pleasure to go. Row of windows facing a vista of trees. Long row of flat screens. I usually read but tonight I watched, and listened via headphones, to American Idol. Five hundred calories burned instead of consumed. Much preferred.
So here's my gymservation for the day. There needs to be a row of mirrors situated so we machine joggers can see a rear view of our tookus in motion. I came up with this idea soon after an attractive, spandex-attired woman approached the machine in front of me. She was about my size. A little on the plump side but presentable. And then the jogging began. Ooh lawdy. The swingin' and the swayin' and the gyratin' of her booster seat illuminated by the sheen of her polyurethane was... well, my nightmare in motion.
And then I thought of my booty. I had to fight off the urge to turn around and see if the guys observing my booty-nomics had an equally horrified look on their faces.
It's probably for the best, then. The no mirrors. These fitness designers know what they're doing. If
we I knew what we I looked like from that angle we I might not leave the house. Ever. And this way, in my state of denial, I'm out there workin' it.
Ten points if you can guess who's hiding her booty in the picture above.