Lie To Me

After a short hiatus (weeks. ok, months) from the gym I decided to give it another go last night since my fat clothes are getting an eensy bit snugly and we have recently moved into house that is 1 block from my local rec center.  Rushing the kids into a bath I threw on my old trusty workout ensemble that is hideously tight and beyond unattractive in any language, snatched my iphone away from my husband and jumped into the truck before I had time to chicken out.  Yes, I drove the 500 feet to the workout room; creepy people hide in the shadows thank you very much.  Here's how it all went down ....

• Jumped out of the truck with purpose, tied unruly natty hair into bun, sauntered into the gym.
• Put my John Hancock on the Sign-In sheet, attendant mentions she hasn't seen me in a while and has the audacity to ask how I've been.  the nerve
• Walk into the exercise room like I own the joint and then quickly reminded that whomever set up the treadmills so that your big ole arse faces the parking lot/entire world must be skinny sadists and should be fired.
• The room is empty (thank God) so I pick the treadmill closest to the wall as to not be seen by another local I may possibly see again during the light of day, plugged in some tunes and started walking. 
• In between my huffing and puffing during the warm-up cycle (smirk and you die) the darn thing starts blinking my weight in bright red numbers!  What in the Hell kind of torture contraption is this?   Look - my pants are leaving an indention on my waistline, I look like I have on a shirt from my 9 yr. old and the friction that is coming from my thighs rubbing together could light up the whole damn town.  Do I really need to know what my weight is?!  I think not.  Hey Nordic Track - let's do away with the weight indicator and instead display You are a stone cold fox.  Make it happen people. 

So there I am about 15 minutes into my little workout which started off pretty calm and almost/barely enjoyable until some random fella from the weight room decided to join me on the treadmills, and by joining me I am telling you he got on the one facing me I'm assuming so we could "get some chemistry going" over my wobbly bits and the uni-boob action I had going on.  Oh, I could've had him with all the crazy-sweaty-sexy vibe radiating off me if I was into that kind of thing .... dating my grandfather .... but it royally ticked me off.  There we were amongst a plethora of equipment that was totally available for someone to use NOT facing me and here this joker comes in and makes it so I have to step-up my game.  Not pass out on the 4.9 incline and supersonic speed I set.  Stare up at the ceiling pumping my fists to 50 Cent and not fall breaking a hip.  Pretend that I don't want to die after only 20 minutes.

By the grace of God I survived for 35 minutes with my pride relatively intact and without a Same Time - Same Place nod from Old Man River.  Also a huge shout out to my husband for eating the remaining 3.2 cookies while I was out therefore dashing any possibility of me consuming them upon my return which would have undoubtedly happened.  Tonight all I need to do is plug in some more funky beats, squeeze into my ravishing walking gear and run out of the door while I am still motivated.  All of this of course depends on me being able to walk up the 2 flights of stairs to reach my front door.  So, if you see me sitting in my driveway tomorrow morning in the same clothes I have on today you will know there was not a repeat performance on the treadmill or I had a late night at the V.F.W with gramps.