First, A Bad Idea:
I decided, after a few weeks of really putting it off, that today would be the day I’d return to the gym. I left work early, I didn’t have much else to do, I didn’t have a dinner idea in mind, so it just made sense that I do that rather than veg till Husband came home (which, might I add, I am really good at). I even had my gym bag packed and waiting for me in the trunk of the car and I know what you’re thinking — I was REALLY on top of it — but in reality it was there from a few days previous. I just don’t go that often. Whatever no big deal.
It’s not that I hate exercising — I spent a large chunk of early 2011 doing it pretty much non-stop so people wouldn’t mistake me for being pregnant, and I discovered Zumba and kickboxing and that I was actually physically capable of running. But then the hip incident occurred and the orthopedist finally told me I could do all the low-impact cardio I wanted. Which would be great if that’s what I actually wanted, but really I want to do all the high impact cardio.
This one time I walked on the treadmill. Never doing that again.
It would be far more accurate for me to say I hate the gym and all the weirdos that I might encounter there. This blog post is not only hilarious, it’s remarkably accurate, and since we live in a college town, I come across these sorts of gym goers all the time. As soon as you’re finished cracking up over that one, check out Part II. [By the way, Mom, you won’t find these very funny, I’m pretty sure, so you can skip them. Love you!] I have these dreams of someday living in a house and having enough space to fit a treadmill or an elliptical or some sort of do-it-all weight machine in there, along with a television and a water fountain to make the experience feel more authentic. I’d keep the TV on ESPN or CNN all of the time and complain in my mind about how I’d much rather be watching something else. I might even leave one of the machines sticky with my sweat. (I neither do this currently nor endorse it in any way).
But I don’t live in a house; I live in a very small apartment, and since it’s been consistently frigid outside, riding my Specialized isn’t an option either, so gym it is. I had big plans for that elliptical and even decided to go over to the weights area and kind of roam around till I felt stronger. After putting it off as long as I could, I finally parked the car, grabbed my backpack, and headed inside that warm, sticky, smelly building. Scanned my finger (yeah, I work out at the CIA headquarters, whatever), and headed to the
exhibition hall locker room.
The Low Point
It really wasn’t till I had put on my running shorts that I remembered the one thing I only remember in situations like when I’m putting on running shorts: I hadn’t shaved my legs. For months. Typically, something like this might not deter me too much; I’m not the type of woman who never shaves her legs ever, but it’s wintertime, after all, and in my defense my leg hair doesn’t get too grotesquely long. But when you have a few months under your belt, hair happens so there I was, poised and ready to go in the shortest pair of shorts I own with the hairiest legs I’ve had in awhile. *cue “I’m Sexy and I Know It”*
It wasn’t so bad on the elliptical — after all my legs were in motion the entire time so if anything, the hair made my legs look chiseled or like they were moving faster than they really were. But as soon as I stepped off and headed for the leg machine right next to a window, letting natural light pour on in, I realized the leg hair situation was much more dire than I originally thought. Lots of leg hair all up in here. The upside, I suppose, was that no one tried to hit on me.
The solution is clear. I’ll just need to stop wearing my running shorts.