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The other day I finally got off my butt, after spending a whole day on it writing, to go to the gym.  

To boost the mood, I even put on a coordinated outfit, shirt matching the tiny green strip of the sneakers, baseball cap splashing red.  Any little encouragement counts.  Half way to the gym, my body, still yearning to get its ass back in a chair, decided to afflict itself with cramps from hell.  Thus began the typical self-dialogue born from a life of solitude.

Can we go back and work out at home?

No.  That’s what you promised yesterday but didn’t follow through.  Not turning back.

Come on. Killer cramps here?  Hello? 

The answer is no.


At last the good-me won, though she made sure somebody, i.e. the poor woman at the front desk, heard all about these killer cramps.  To shut me up, front desk handed me a couple of Midol pills.  It takes at least twenty minutes for the pills to work.  Now what?  Machines. First one: Wave, something between a skater and a skier.  Five minutes later, shit this is hurting my back.  Off the Wave and on to the ArcTrainer.  Setting: manual, Weight: piss off, Time: forty-five minutes.  Five minutes later.  I feel weak.  I left that machine as well, to go to spin class because spinning is a sit down exercise, well mostly.  Besides, with the lights off no one will notice a subpar performanceThe instructor was setting up a couple of newcomers.  No sooner than I chose a bike hidden in the corner, she looked up, smiled, then told the newbies: “You guys can watch her.  She has great form.”

Ah crap. 

The class started.  I pushed as hard as a menstruating, sleep-deprived, older than thirty-nine-year old woman can, even crooning passionately to Laroux, albeit the wrong words (This time baby I’ll be runni…ng proof instead of bullet proof), occasionally turning around and flashing a smile to inspire the newcomers with my utter joy.  By some miracle I made it through the entire class.

Now pumped full of confidence carried on to the weight room.  A few feet over, a handsome member of the opposite sex was hard at work getting chiseled.  Well hello there. Time to shine. Anybody can do lat pull downs.  But who can do it on a flipped-over Bosu ball while balancing on one leg?

I got his attention all right.  He took a peak at this strong, well-balanced, one-legged, creature.  Hah.  I still got it. Just like the good old days.  Other people glanced too, though oddly, during my rest time.

Then came last exercise of the day: bicep curls.  This was the time the universe chose to unveil my lesson of the day or even a lifetime.  My eyes dilated at the image reflecting in the mirror.  A pair of certain body parts was standing at attention despite two layers of clothing: a sports bra plus the damn green top.  But there’s more.  One of projections was hanging about 1.5 centimeters, forgive me…about half an inch, lower than the other.

Shit.  When did this happen? Was I that active on the bike? 

Rather than leaving immediately, I felt compelled to take care of business right then and there, facing the wall of mirrors.  Shock has a way of making you do absurd things.  Only after moving the aforementioned bosom up, my brain registered that it was time to flee.  Of course we must never forget the importance of stretching. I did that while running to my car, which probably threw the level off again.

Since that moment, my gym checklist changed to the following: keys, check; gym card, check; body part level, check.