Must I constantly eat my words--I WILL NEVER . . . . .
Be based in Miami
Drive a stick shift again
Step foot on a cardio work-out machine
Ok, well, I'm in Delray Beach for a couple of months. So I might as well attempt to get into shape. I jog on occasion, so last night in bed I started psyching myself up. I basically just berate myself and grab handfuls of my stomach roll. First thing this morning I reach for Steve Jobs off my night table. He informs me it is 77 degrees, yet feels like 82 at 7:45am! (Yes, I know he's dead, but he reaches out to me on a daily basis.) Maybe if I'd gotten up at 3 am, running could have been an option, but now--forget about it!
As I swing my feet out of bed, I literally step on my running gear. Oh my God! What did I do? Some idiotic lifestyle app must have told me to arrange my work-out clothes the night before. I would never have come up with this on my own. Well, lucky me. I have a gym in the building. I mean, it's like twenty steps from my apartment. And those that like gyms, like my husband, say it's a good one. But that's a topic for another blog. I would love to ignore it, but it's on the way to the elevator. If I really want to avoid its taunts, I take the stairs. But, oh, it's the stairs and then I get dumped out into the ugly alley instead of our superhip, cool, south-beach looking lobby.
So after two cups of coffee, I wander into the gym. Ahh, it's fifteen steps, not 21. Thank gawd, no one is here. I get myself set up on some device, a walky-type thing. Not the tread mill. Gag me! Actually, it's a steppy thing. Elliptical-possibly, probably. There's a big green button, "Quick Start." Kinda seems like a Cardio for Dummies type of button, so I press it. Bells and whistles go off. Well, not really. Just some numbers light up. I elevate and start stepping. It registers time elapsed and my distance. There's also something called crossramp and resistance with up and down arrows. I know what resistance is and we aren't friends. I jack it down to 3. I can always go lower. Crossramp (not a word) is set to 7. I leave it be. I like even numbers and 3+7=10.
Crap! Someone is setting up shop next to me, on a similar apparatus. "Oh," I say. "I think that tv screen may not work." Just because I couldn't figure it out certainly doesn't mean anything. I just don't want some stranger, sweating three feet from me and more importantly, spying on my cardio output (or lack thereof).
"I bring my own entertainment." She whips out her phone. Up pops a movie and in go the earbuds. Is she going to step for two hours?
It's actually like being at the 10 a.m. movies. The whole damn place is empty and someone has to sit their ass right next to mine! "Go use the thing with the pedals or that row thingy," the bubble above my head screams.
That's it! I'm just gonna blow this joint. She doesn't know if I've been here for 1/16 of a mile or 20! Oh shit! Yes, she does. It's right there, in red neon lights. Three minutes and .04 miles it advertises. If she can look at my stuff, I'm looking at hers! It's kinda like stalking, but this ain't my first rodeo (re:www.tjtumbleweeds.blogspot.com, Kindles, Nooks and Old-Fashioned Books, 4/28/11). Her numbers are set to 12 and 8. Definitely more impressive than my 7 and 3.
And now, what is she doing? She has her arms at her sides. There's all kinds of hand holds to grasp. One set is right in front of my ribs. It should be labeled: grasp if you think you're going to fall. The other holds are shoulder height and move back and forth. They kinda make me feel like I'm swishing down the Austrian Alps. But I'm not. I'm staring out the window at palm trees and sweating. I furtively rest my arms at my sides. Holy shit! I'm bobbing around like a Weebil! My core is trying to engage! Not the core--this mama don't do core! I swear this work-out freak is working her abs as she steps into oblivion. Weebils may wobble and not fall down, but I am not one of those Playskool plastic creatures from the '70's! I grasp the "grasp if you think you're going to fall" hand holds and uh, grasp.
That bitch!
I stay on this thing dancing like Fred Astaire, Steppin' out with my Baby for the next 32 gawd damn minutes! If I had an umbrella, I'd be using it! Oops, never mind. Different song and different dancer! Next time I come here (like there's going to be a next time), I will bring Post-It notes and wall-paper every damn red blinking neon light in sight.
As I swing my feet out of bed, I literally step on my running gear. Oh my God! What did I do? Some idiotic lifestyle app must have told me to arrange my work-out clothes the night before. I would never have come up with this on my own. Well, lucky me. I have a gym in the building. I mean, it's like twenty steps from my apartment. And those that like gyms, like my husband, say it's a good one. But that's a topic for another blog. I would love to ignore it, but it's on the way to the elevator. If I really want to avoid its taunts, I take the stairs. But, oh, it's the stairs and then I get dumped out into the ugly alley instead of our superhip, cool, south-beach looking lobby.
So after two cups of coffee, I wander into the gym. Ahh, it's fifteen steps, not 21. Thank gawd, no one is here. I get myself set up on some device, a walky-type thing. Not the tread mill. Gag me! Actually, it's a steppy thing. Elliptical-possibly, probably. There's a big green button, "Quick Start." Kinda seems like a Cardio for Dummies type of button, so I press it. Bells and whistles go off. Well, not really. Just some numbers light up. I elevate and start stepping. It registers time elapsed and my distance. There's also something called crossramp and resistance with up and down arrows. I know what resistance is and we aren't friends. I jack it down to 3. I can always go lower. Crossramp (not a word) is set to 7. I leave it be. I like even numbers and 3+7=10.
Crap! Someone is setting up shop next to me, on a similar apparatus. "Oh," I say. "I think that tv screen may not work." Just because I couldn't figure it out certainly doesn't mean anything. I just don't want some stranger, sweating three feet from me and more importantly, spying on my cardio output (or lack thereof).
"I bring my own entertainment." She whips out her phone. Up pops a movie and in go the earbuds. Is she going to step for two hours?
It's actually like being at the 10 a.m. movies. The whole damn place is empty and someone has to sit their ass right next to mine! "Go use the thing with the pedals or that row thingy," the bubble above my head screams.
That's it! I'm just gonna blow this joint. She doesn't know if I've been here for 1/16 of a mile or 20! Oh shit! Yes, she does. It's right there, in red neon lights. Three minutes and .04 miles it advertises. If she can look at my stuff, I'm looking at hers! It's kinda like stalking, but this ain't my first rodeo (re:www.tjtumbleweeds.blogspot.com, Kindles, Nooks and Old-Fashioned Books, 4/28/11). Her numbers are set to 12 and 8. Definitely more impressive than my 7 and 3.
And now, what is she doing? She has her arms at her sides. There's all kinds of hand holds to grasp. One set is right in front of my ribs. It should be labeled: grasp if you think you're going to fall. The other holds are shoulder height and move back and forth. They kinda make me feel like I'm swishing down the Austrian Alps. But I'm not. I'm staring out the window at palm trees and sweating. I furtively rest my arms at my sides. Holy shit! I'm bobbing around like a Weebil! My core is trying to engage! Not the core--this mama don't do core! I swear this work-out freak is working her abs as she steps into oblivion. Weebils may wobble and not fall down, but I am not one of those Playskool plastic creatures from the '70's! I grasp the "grasp if you think you're going to fall" hand holds and uh, grasp.
That bitch!
I stay on this thing dancing like Fred Astaire, Steppin' out with my Baby for the next 32 gawd damn minutes! If I had an umbrella, I'd be using it! Oops, never mind. Different song and different dancer! Next time I come here (like there's going to be a next time), I will bring Post-It notes and wall-paper every damn red blinking neon light in sight.
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