the gym.

My biggest fear (aside from the doctor) might be becoming a gym rat.

You know.

Really buff. Walking with my arms far apart from my body, as if I’m an underused action figure stuck in the upright position. Towel in hand. iPod attached to my tricep. Protein shakes in the refrigerator.

Gag.

At my ill-fated doctor’s visit last week, the nurse asked me how many times a week I exercised.

When I finished laughing so hard my chest hurt, she gave me a top-to-bottom stare, and wrote something on my chart.

Jordan signed us up for a gym membership the next day.

I’ve never had a gym membership before. I’ve never wanted one. Bench-pressing 30 pounds as a 7th grade basketball star gave me all the bragging rights I needed.

Until Faulkner. When Jordan dragged me to the trailer (yes, a real trailer. Another Alabama surprise) to work out each week. And I liked it. I giggled my way through most of it, but by the end of freshman year, I had some definition. I wouldn’t say I was hooked, but our routine continued until thesis-writing consumed my life.

Then came the real world and eight hour days that leave me craving my cool sheets and the TV remote. Muscle definition? Bragging rights? Overall health and well-being?

Meh. Who needs it?

Of course, one day, I woke up and realized I won’t be 23 all my life, and I should probably start taking care of the body I’ve been given. (A nurse giving you the death stare can really have an impact.)

So, we got a gym membership.

First, let me say that I absolutely intend to continue this routine. I am committed.

Now, know this: I do not belong in a gym.

My gangly legs and long arms barely fit on any machine. My height-- apparently shorter than 90% of the gym's population-- is a dilemma at each contraption I sit on. I tire after 15 minutes on a treadmill.

I don’t have the proper attire. My clothes are too long and too loose.

I’d rather have a chocolate milkshake than a powder-rich smoothie.

My iPod (affectionately named Nina the Nano) is so small I couldn’t tie it on my arm if I wanted to.

I don’t get sweaty enough, so even after an hour in the gym, I look like I haven’t been trying.

My hair is too short for a cute ponytail that bounces as I walk/faint for .75 miles on the treadmill.

Water gives me cramps.

I find myself laughing at my husband’s red face and unusual breathing patterns, which I quickly discovered he does not find funny.

To make matters worse, every time I lift my arms to work those triceps (or is it biceps?), I imagine I’m being tickled, and break down in a fit of giggles.

I am probably a distraction to most of Gold’s Gym.

But I will prevail.

I am nothing if not dedicated (also: stubborn).


(P.S.- A huge thank you to everyone who commented on my last post. I actually felt like a real blogger, and I got some great advice to boot! I'll be sure to keep you informed of my progress. This growing up stuff is not for the faint of heart, is it?)