Maybe you are aware of my new "group therapy" exercise program on Monday nights. I've mentioned it several times on twitter... and elsewhere, I'm sure. Here's a recap: there are five of us (women) participating; four of them are in their fifties and sixties, and I am 30; the trainer girl, henceforth known as Sexy Clean, is late twenties and super fit and takes this stuff way more seriously than the five of us she is training. I'm sure that has something to do with her looking ten times hotter than me. Fine.
Obviously, one of the perks of this is that I am nearly half the age of everyone else so it should be easy to keep up... and maybe even feel semi-superior. Hey, we are all pathetic in our own way.
Last night was the second session. Apparently, Sexy Clean is adamant about sweat - she made me do harder stuff! And you bet I did it, too - she's only nice until you make her angry, like the HULK of trainer-girls.
Half way through the work-out (I do not do aerobics - come on, they make me not breath!), I start feeling queasy and the room turns into a starry night. All I can think is, oh NOOOOO! I'm only 30! I can't just quit half way through when these other ladies are pushing on with such vigor.
It's a dilema. Do I quit and look like a quitter even though I'm really not just quitting if I'm about to pass out and throw up? What if Sexy Clean gets angry and makes me get back up anyway? It was so freakin hot, too. And stupid me, I didn't want to stop and buy a water at the gas station because I was wearing my yoga pants which are absolutely unflattering to my rear. No, my water was in a travel coffee mug, which was fine until I felt like I was going to pass out and throw up - then all I could taste was soapy coffee water. Ugh!
I seriously considered just going until I passed out (which I assure you, I would have) so they wouldn't think I was only being a baby. But I sat. I sat down and watched four grandmothers, most of them fighting arthritis and osteoporosis, sweat it out for another half hour that I couldn't get through. By the end, I was still sweating profusely and shaking like a silver bullet.
My only saving grace: Mint Milanos. I know, I know. AGAIN with the mint milanos? It's not what you think. See, Ms. Clean asked what I had for dinner, and I was all like, "dinner? Huh, I forgot to eat dinner!" And she was all like, "You didn't eat dinner!?!" and I could just see her becoming Incredible so I tried to think of what I did eat and blurted out, "Oh, I did eat some cookies." Oh, crap. Wrong thing to say.
Despite a quick lashing from Sexy, the cookies saved me. The cookies made me do it. It's not me; it's the cookies. The cookies caused my body to quit on me. In other words: I'm not as old as I felt and if I don't eat cookies (..on Mondays..) I should be able to keep up with the grandmothers.
Yes, keeping up with grandma is a goal. It may seem futile, but it's less embarrassing than Not keeping up.
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