The first thing I do upon entering a gym is locate a woman that is fatter than me. If I manage to spot a sufficiently plump gal, I sigh in relief and go about my self-torturous business. My reasoning is this: All the women in the joint who are thinking “My God, if I ever get that big, freakin’ shoot me.” are probably looking at that other fat chick’s ass instead of mine. Yes, that is just how whacked in the head I am about weight. If I don’t see another plus-sizer in the house, I am skittish the entire time I am in public view. I am convinced that every skinny bitch on the floor is looking at me and thinking “Jesus, lay off the pie honey.” Trust me; I know its weird.
So, I haven’t been to a gym in two years. The whole cancer thing put the kabosh on working out, but also served as a convenient excuse to lay on the couch and eat cheese. Now that chemo is a permanent part of my life, I can no longer justify scrambling eggs as exercise. Therefore, I joined a gym here in Texas. When I walked in for the first time, I was filled with self-loathing. But slowly, things started to suck less. Not only are all members of this sweat lodge super fit, they are also incredibly nice. The check in gal who swiped my card smiled at me without a hint of pity. The trainer dudes were helpful and not the least bit pushy. And the Barbie dolls were totally polite in the locker room. Not an aerobaskank to be found. Damn. Now I have to actually do something while I’m here.
With the best attitude I could muster, I hopped on a treadmill. I walked. I checked my heart rate. I walked some more. I watched closed captioned versions of Oprah. More walking. A glance at the clock shows I’ve been dutifully working out for …. seven minutes. CRAP! This is why I hate this! For the next 23 minutes I employed as many mental diversions as I could recall. Complex math problems. Grapes in Chateauneuf du Pape. Cleveland Show lyrics. Finally a half hour had passed. I was sweaty and relieved to dismount the cursed machine.
Now, here’s the part that threw me. I actually felt…better. Taller and less knotted up in the shoulders. And NO ONE has given me the fatty stink eye. Not once! Maybe part of why Austinites all seem so damn happy is that they’re all super fit? Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants! Perhaps there is something to this whole fitness thing. Maybe I’ll think twice about that pie.