Who wears lipstick to the gym?

Went to the gym today. I went, as I always do, in workout attire; some black stretch pants and a t-shirt (this is essentially my uniform for life.  Black pants, U of R shirt).  My hair was tied in a knot and since I was going to be working out and soon to be drenched like a sweaty beast, I didn't see the need to touch up my left over make-up before I went.  After all, I'm going to the gym to workout, not to make a fashion statement (That's what the rest of my life is for.  I'm SUPER stylish----please take note of the sarcasm).  And I assume that everyone who is going to the gym has the same mindset.  Couldn't be more wrong. 

I've gathered from my observations, made during hours spent walking my way to nowhere on the treadmill, that there are three types of people who frequent the gym.  Each group has it's own look, style and characteristics, much like the cliques found in a high school quad.  I fall into group one.  We're the fatties who have found our way into the gym, perhaps by mistake (those strip mall doors all look alike....mirrored so you can't see what's inside. You mean this isn't the frozen yogurt place?) but now that we're here, we are committed to working hard and getting healthy.  We're the ones who are hanging off of the elliptical, red faced and sweaty, appearing to be seconds from a heart attack.  We don't have the latest workout gear or the fancy shoes, but we're there....slightly intimidated my the crazy contraptions some call weight machines, but we're there nonetheless. 

Group two is made up of former members of group one.  These are the people who have worked hard and it shows.  They are toned, running with ease and getting in a great workout.  Their clothes are legitimate workout attire, not just some old cut off sweats, and they have shoes that keep them from pronating.  They are friendly, helpful and I am inspired by their work ethic.  You can tell that it's hard work, but oh so worth the effort.  I like these people.  They are who I aspire to be. 

Then we come to group three.  Ahh, group three.  You know them.  Hopefully  you AREN'T them.  Group three are the size zero girls with the watermelon breasts (oops, you mean my shoes don't match?) and the fake tans, who you can tell have obviously gone to great pains to prepare themselves for their 'workout'.  They've showered, carefully selected an adorable outfit and spent far too long on their hair and makeup than anyone should who's destination is a gym.  Group three are the huge, greasy dudes in the free weight section who are yelling at each other to get in 'one more baby....one more!' They're the ones who must rub up against the machines when their backs itch because they can't get their morbidly over sized arms to bend far enough to reach the spot (it's very reminiscent of the gorillas on the Discovery channel.  Maybe I'll put down my People magazine and watch these guys for a while).  Group three doesn't actually do much working out at the gym.  There is a lot of walking back and forth between the machines and using of the mirrors to check themselves out from all angles.  Group three pisses me off.  They are who I hope to fall on after I clutch my chest and go flying off of the treadmill.

A fat kid visits the gym.

I love food.  Everything about it.  The way it looks, the way it smells, cooking, eating......love it.  This is not a good thing when combined with my addictive personality.  Some people struggle with alcohol or cigarettes.  I struggle with the overwhelming lure of the Sausage McMuffin.....or three Sausage McMuffins to be exact.  And possibly a hash brown or two.  (Seriously, do they put crack in that stuff because they are irresistible to me on every level.)  And I'm no better than the junkie laying in the street.  I crave them.  I can literally taste them in my mouth every morning as I make the drive to score my daily fix.  If I don't have any money, I start digging under the couch cushions in order to scrape up enough cash for at least one of the delicious treats. 

Then you throw into the mix the fact that I have copious deficits of will power.  Sometimes I'll be okay.  Sometimes I'll make the trek to the drive in and purchase just one McMuffin (okay, it's never less than two.  I mean, who are we kidding?).  But with almost total certainty I'll make a second trip that day and get two more.  Does it count as four if you eat them two at a time, twice a day (I was never very good at math)?  I'm terrible and I know it....clap your hands.

Way back in the 1900's, circa the time of Ace of Base and Alanis Morrisette, I was a gym rat.  I loved to work out and it showed.  I had always been a dancer, so I had that great dancers body, made even better by the sculpting of weight lifting.  But eventually you get a life and six days in the gym turns to four.  And four turns to two and eventually I was only driving by the gym on my way to the doughnut shop.  Although, I'd always be sure to wave my chocolaty fingers at the people inside (those poor people....don't they know how much better it is on the other side?  The first one is free...).  I was okay for a while because I was still pretty active.  I was coaching and choreographing and taking care of my grandmother; all things that kept me in shape. 

But lately I've noticed a recurring problem that I find quite unsettling.  When I picture myself in my mind I look the way I did when I got married ten years ago.  Then I walk past a mirror and think 'who's that fat chick'?  Oh wait, it's me!  Not good.  I've turned into the cliche fat cheer coach.  Definitely not good.  Ok, time to do something about this.  So on that note this morning I got my fat butt out of bed, drove my fat butt to the gym and hoisted my fat but onto the treadmill.  I'm determined to look better and feel better and to have the vision in my mind match the reflection in the mirror.  So it's off to the gym 5 days a week and no more McDonald's.....okay, maybe just one....two.  Definitely no more than two.....per day.....dammit. 

Before pic (soon to be 'again' pic)

Waaaaay, back in the day.

Sunday Blessings

Every Sunday I like to post a few things for which I am grateful. 

• Family.  What would we do without them?
• My puppy dog Peaches.  17 years old and going strong.
• The simple pleasure that is listening to and watching Joel and the babygirl camping out in the backyard. 
• Books.
• A remarkably cool summer.
• The sense of peace that is derived from knowing God is in control.

A harrowing experience.

We descend the steps and place our things on an adjacent surface.  Something catches his eye.  The ground below our feet is hot but he is not phased as his swift pace keeps him from feeling the heat.  As I proceed he darts back and forth, always a few steps ahead.  I've decided that in spite of his warnings, his frantic warnings, that I must reach out and take hold of this perceived threat.  My arm is nearly fully extended, my hand just about to touch what is hanging from the wall, when suddenly he crashes into my legs throwing me off balance.  I let out a frustrated cry.  "Relax.  It'll be okay" I yell. 

After what seems to be an inordinate amount of time I finally posses what is wreaking such havoc in the mind of my companion.  I don't understand his apprehension.  Why does this thing, this inanimate object create such a frenzy?  It's merely a tool.  But not to him.  To see it through his eyes it is a dangerous nemesis; something that must be conquered sooner rather than later. 

As I make my way his anticipation grows with each passing second.  He tries desperately to knock it out of my hands.  All the while letting out terrible ear piercing hollers.  It's become a dance.  He leans in, I step back.  I step aside, he lunges across me.  He's begun to circle me now in the hopes of...I don't know what?  Frustrate me? Cause me to fall to the ground thus loosening my grip and allowing him to finally prove his dominance over this terrible foe? 

I am vigilant.  I must continue with my quest or our trip will be for naught.  As I proceed, my friend has begrudgingly resigned himself to the position of usher.  He guides me through the process with fast paced breath and a heart rate in the hundreds.  It is almost finished.  Soon we will be able to partake of the refreshing experience that has brought us here today.  With one final stroke of the hand my job is complete.  But there is no time to celebrate.  I must still make way to return this tool.  My friend senses that we are nearing the end and knows these moments mark his last chance for success.  I move quickly hoping to end this confusing and difficult incident; understanding but not accepting the fact that it's actually not an incident but a horrible, horrible pattern and all will be repeated tomorrow

I've managed to take the lead and am in sight of my destination; my protector is circling me once again in a last desperate attempt to seek and destroy.  But alas, I have won......
I've managed to replace the pool skimmer on the wall without Copper chewing it to bits.  He runs full force at the wall and leaps through the air with all his might.  Once he pounces off the wall and lands back on the deck he glares at the cleaning apparatus. 

"Some day" he seems to say.  "Some day I'll get you pool skimmer."