It’s 8pm on a Wednesday night, and instead of being where any sane, hardworking girl finished with a day of tax drudgery should be – on the couch, watching Supernanny reruns – I’m at the gym.
That’s right, interwebs, the gym. A place which, for many a month, was foreign to me. A place I wanted to revisit…someday. Just after I got past ______ (enter some major/minor/imagined/etc. obstacle here). Big hopes, big dreams, little motivation. Heck, because I work out at the Y, I figured that even if I didn’t exercise, my membership was like donating to charity – a good cause, so it wasn’t wasteful if I didn’t go; it was totally ok.
But there I was, walking down the garishly lit hallway, surrounded by the sounds of fellow humans tormenting themselves in the pursuit of smaller waistlines and bigger biceps. My goal? An exercise class. And not just any exercise class – the big bad biker daddy of them all – Powerpump.
Powerpump, you may wonder? It sounds so friendly. Proactive. Energy-packed. Well…it’s…something. Imagine, if you will, an exercise class where you use barbells, aerobic steps and free weights in a pumped up, action packed, techno music filled frenzy. In all honesty, it’s something pretty awesome, but it’s INTENSE. At least to the girl who hadn’t worked out in a (long) while. (Apparently, according to Awesome Boyfriend, chasing cats around the house doesn’t count. Something about wood floor-sliding cutting out half the effort or something – I wasn’t listening – I was chasing cats.)
Class starts and I thank my lucky stars I had the foresight to ask the instructor what-all was needed (one step aerobic step, barbells with 3 different weight amounts, a mat, an extra hand weight or two…). Immediately, we plunge (literally) into squats. While holding barbells. And we do it a lot. And fast. Shocked to find out that I didn’t magically retain all that stamina and flexibility I had garnered in the wide variety of athletic endeavors I indulged in in college, I was in danger of collapsing in agony. “Think of something pleasant!!” I thought.
So I thought of that thing I love more than almost anything else – food. Tasty, wonderful nomsy goodness. I thought of what I would have for dinner that night when I got home – because in fear of overdoing it and barfing on the floor in front of a class of strangers and subsequently having to change my name and find a new gym, I hadn’t eaten since lunch – 9 hours before. I pictured the nice, healthy ground turkey tacos I would have, covered in lettuce and tomatoes. Mmm…dinner.
Meanwhile, things were ramping up in class – I was supposed to put more weight on my barbells and heave them over my head repeatedly. Wow – new kinds of pain! Suddenly, ground turkey isn’t working for me anymore – escapism must have more fat/calories/carbs! I pictured other things I love dearly – warm garlic bread and Blue Bell Tin Roof ice cream. I thought of how wonderful they’d taste – I even pictured the steps of how to make them and how easy it would be to have them, right after class!
As we all laid ourselves down on the step aerobics step and thrust our iron burdens skyward ad nauseum, bread and ice cream – the comfort foods – weren’t enough to stave off the pain. It had to be enchiladas, covered in chili gravy, that I focused on. More than that, I had to tell myself that I was going to actually get to eat those things the very second the class ended. That was the only way! Mmm…chili gravy…and onions. And rice…and what the heck, beans, too!!
We clambered back upright and our instructor – once sage and enthusiastic, now savage and sadistic (ok, maybe only in my head) demands more weight on the barbells and…what? He said what? I couldn’t have heard that right… I’m supposed to lunge now? My legs have been visibly trembling since our little squat encounter. People around me can see my pants vibrating like hummingbird wings. This cannot be good. As my poor weak legs tremble alarmingly beneath me, I try to breathe and collect my thoughts as I sink into a lunge I may very well never get out of. “At least I’ll be closer to the ground if I do fall,” I think, as I lunge my first lunge in at least 4 years.
In that second, I know that whatever food fantasies I’ve been indulging in during this torture session, they’re not going to work. I have to pull out the big guns. The favorite and worst-for-you stuff. My reason-for-living meals. My Olympic team. I picture pizza, hot and steaming. Pasta – piles of it – covered in white wine garlic butter sauce. Paella – the kind Awesome Boyfriend makes – and our special shrimp and grits. I can smell fried chicken, and I swear those are cannelloni dancing in my eyes. My vision clouds – whether from exhaustion or forceful daydreaming, it matters not. In the haze, I can see the mother load. Chicken tikka masala, surrounded by saffron rice. It’s the food equivalent of walking towards the light. My time has come and I’m done – I can’t go on, in more ways that one. I’m cashing in my (meal) ticket and it’s “Goodbye world, it was nice nomsing you,” and all that.
Just as I think I can’t possibly continue, the class ends. Nearly heaving with exhaustion and trying to hide it, I try to make a graceful exit. My legs are as limp as the penne pasta I was fantasizing about, however, and my exit is more like Donald O’Conner, singing “Make ‘Em Laugh” in “Singin’ In The Rain,” as opposed to dignified. I make it to the car and curse myself soundly for jumping in the exercise deep end like that. I go home, sit down on the bed to change out of my clothes…and fall asleep.
The hoot of it all was that I never did get my dinner that night – dream or otherwise.
