I love the gym. Inspired by a friend, I'm determined to become one of those people who just has to exercise everyday. (And I would like to add that the fact that this friend is an old high school girlfriend of Sloan's has nothing to do with it. Honest. I genuinely like the girl. Maybe I'm growing up. Maybe...) And I've been doing pretty good with the working out. Okay, maybe not everyday, but, on average, 4 times a week. Considering I used to tell people, "If you ever see me running--Duck!--there is someone chasing after me with a gun." I'm not a runner--I've got tendinitis and plantar faciatis in both feet and well, how do I put this, running gives me serious undergarment issues. And the possibility of black eyes.
But it is not just the gym I love. It is my gym. It is basically a cross between a YMCA, a country club, and Wet N' Wild. I love that they know my name and Henry's name and that there is even a 3 year little boy named William that gets excited whenever I drop Henry off at the nursery. They play trucks and cars together. Oh, and did I mention that I love that I get 2 1/2 hours of free childcare a day. But with the advent of the nursery, Henry has been getting sick a lot more lately. I feel we are well on our way to getting tubes. I have very mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I want to never go back there and shelter my son so he never gets another ear infection and he doesn't have to get tubes put in his ears. I call this the "good mommy" approach. On the other hand, what good is having a tubeless little boy with an unhealthy mommy? Going to the gym makes me healthy, boosts my self-confidence, and I'm pretty sure is putting me on the path to sanity. I call this the "selfish mommy" approach.
You could argue that I can work out at home and not put H in the nursery. You're right. I can. But it is just not the same.
Working out at the gym is controlled. Monday, Wednesday, Friday it is weights and cardio. Tuesday and Thursday just cardio. I put on my Ipod and do 3 reps of 12 on the health quest circuit and various other machines that promise to give me rockin' abs, no touching thighs, and arms that would make Angelina Jolie jealous. And if I time it right, there's a Zumba class after that. If not, then it is to the elliptical.
Oh the elliptical, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. For starters, I can ride you Lionel Richie style (All night long) and my feet will still feel glorious. My thighs and butt may be on fire, but my feet love the way you sway and stride without them ever leaving the ground. You have a television. I can watch reruns of Project Runway, the Today Show, or, if I'm really lucky, Neil Patrick Harris guest hosting on Live! with Regis and Kelly. You let me see where I am going. I can watch the little blipping lights that tell me when the resistance will increase or decrease. I can crank it up a notch if I'm really wanting to feel the burn, or turn you down with the simple press of a button if it starts getting a little to real. You give me so many workout choices--manual, cross country, hill climbers 1, 2, and 3 (!), interval, weight loss interval, and you'll even give me a fitness test should I want one. You let me see how long I've been working out and at the press of a button you'll tell me how much longer I have to go. You even let me know just how cardioriffic I am by taking my pulse and telling me how many calories I am burning. You help me to burn 400 calories in 30 minutes. You even hold my water bottle for me.
And all this happens in air conditioning.
Working out at home does not work like this. I've been putting Henry in the stroller and walking around the neighborhood only to find out that I am a bit unbalanced. And not in a "Oh, girl, You so crazy!" sort of way. But an uncomfortable silence and give me the name of your therapist sort of way. For starters, the other day I almost died. I decided instead of just going around the block over and over, I'd do a loop that was about, I was guessing, two to two and half miles. Mmm, yeah, not so much. After walking about an hour where my feet are killing me and the hills just keep coming with no warning at all and even when it looks flat the road isn't level I realized that I wasn't even close to where I thought the road was looping back around. See, this is the problem with walking. Once you realize you've gone too far--you've still got to turn around and get home. So I just turned around and came back. No loop. I kept hoping someone I knew would drive by and I could chuck the stroller in the back and just Britney Spears my baby in my lap what I assumed were the 47 miles back to my house. But alas, no one came by. And sweat was dripping into my eyes after mixing with sunscreen and it was 95 degrees by this time. (I'd planned to be home before it got really hot in the middle of the day, but instead, I'd taken myself and my baby into the bowels of the Stonehenge neighborhood). By the time I saw my house in the distance, I grew weary trying to figure out who was at my house in my parking spot only to have it slowly dawn on me that it was my car.
This morning was much better on the loop, but still not as good as my elliptical machine. I looked up on mapquest the loop. In total, the loop is 3 and a half miles. Completely doable with that knowledge. Horrific when I looked up the address for the house where I turned. Yep, I was.....wait for it..... 3/4 of a mile from my house when I turn around. So instead of being home quickly having walked 3 1/2 miles--I walked a total of 5 1/2 miles to my near death. This knowledge is both aggravating and hilarious. I decided to do the loop backwards, so the landmarks would be more familiar. Yeah, I got to the turnaround house in about ten minutes and felt like a giant boob.
But the not knowing where I am going isn't the only reason why the elliptical trumps walking in the neighborhood. Let's talk about heat and humidity people. ACAC is air conditioned. Midlothian is not. I've got sweat pooling in between my boobs and dripping down my back into my nether regions. And it's dripping down my face. Stinging. This morning, I rocked a twisted bandanna to keep the sweat out of my eyes. Let Olivia Newton John know I'll return her look when I'm done getting physical. I looked awesome. That's not crazy--that's a fact.
But you see, I like to sing. And dance. I put on my Ipod and I rock out. ROCK OUT, people. I don't have this problem at the gym, because there are people all around me to remind me how to behave. Walking in the neighborhood it's just me and Henry (who thinks I am the best singer and dancer in the whole wide world) and the occasional car or dog walker. And those occasional passersby get their money's worth. Chicago comes on and I can't help but belt out about Saturday in the park (I think it was the 4th of July). And did you know that I know pretty much all the words to the entire soundtrack of Rent? My neighborhood does. But as if the singing weren't bad enough, I dance too. And we're not talking just the white boy head bob. Jamiraquai came on and there were some moves stolen from a one Mr. Napoleon Dynamite. At one point, I had to let go of the stroller to twirl. I twirled. I reached up in the air as if to catch a star. I pointed my toes. On Smoketree Drive.
Oh, Lord, pray for my son's health. I desperately need to get back to the gym.
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