In an effort to fight the flab, I have joined the local "Curves" gym. I'm not sure it will be enough, considering our recent purchase of a barbecue, but at least I'm trying.
The worst moment at the gym, so far, was the first day. A tall willow thin creature named Lindsay measured and weighed me. Then she did the workout with me, demonstrating how each machine worked, and watching me so she could see just how uncoordinated I truly am. I'm not so bad on the machines, but on the in between stations, the "recovery" stations, I suck. I'm supposed to do whatever I want, as long as I keep moving. Jog, dance, use the hula hoop (HA!) do aerobics, whatever. Ummm, can I just stand there and look like a hippo? No? I jog in place. After the first day I went and bought an industrial strength sports bra, so no one else gets hurt.
The idea is that you move to a new thing every 30 seconds. This is really good, because even I can make it through 30 seconds without getting bored. The bad part is, it can take me 27 seconds to get situated on the machine, find the rhythm of the pounding music, and start moving. Then the woman on the stereo chirps "Change stations....now!". Just when I get the hang of it, she changes her tune (every 7 minutes) and says "Step away from your stations, and find your heartbeat. Prepare to count your heart rate for 10 seconds, starting...now!" I've given up finding and counting my heart rate. I just pretend. I know my heart is still in there, and since I'm not puking, I assume I am not working too hard. And off I go for another 7 minutes of looking like an idiot.
In a few weeks, I get to strip down and let Lindsay weigh and measure me again. Then she will post my results on the wall for all to see, or if, god forbid, I don't show any improvement, she will sit down with me for a "serious consultation". I think it's the fear of the "serious consultation" with a stick girl that keeps me going. Wish me luck.