my fitness routine

Every day I look at the class schedule at my gym—my gym, I say, as if I have some kind of claim on it, having been there so often and really marking it with my sweat glands—and I fantasize about what it would be like to go to a class. A class! Me in comfortable clothes, my sneakers unearthed from the back of my closet, filled with endorphins and joy and joyful endorphins and FITNESS.

Tomorrow, I say. Tomorrow I’ll just—I’ll go to a class! It will be so good for me! It will be good for me emotionally, and spiritually, and for my heart and for all my powerful muscles and all my strong bones. I’ll go to one of those lifting classes, where you lift things up and then you put them back down, all in unison with the rest of the class, who are lifting things up and also putting them back down, and no one will notice what amount of weight you are lifting and putting down! Because we’re all in it together, you, and me, and our classmates and our teacher and the techno music that thumps as loud as our hearts in our chests!

Or I could go to yoga, where the Official Gold’s Gym Yogi can fix all my back problems and my front problems and my middle problems and also put me in a soothing state of being soothed, where my body is relaxed and wrung out and my soul is so at peace you’d think someone had injected me right in the earhole with a turkey baster full of liquid morphine.

Or forget the class, because someone’s always looking at your butt in class. I will load up my phone with many delightful audiobooks and I will while away an hour on the treadmill, lost in a story, my mind exercised at the same my butt is.

But if I’m going to walk/jog/run/lurch/limp/stagger, speaking of butts, I should just take the dog, and we should walk briskly through the crisp mountain air, strengthening our bond and our love for each other even as we strengthen our cardiovascular systems and our senses of self-worth!

Except it’s cold out. So I’ll just go to the 4:30 Body Pump thingum. Or is there a yoga class? I could get on the treadmill any time I want. But I should just take Crommy out—it would be rude and selfish to not take Crommy, to kill two birds with one stone! But it’s so cold, and it’s icy too. The gym makes the most sense. But I hate what time the class. When’s yoga again?

And thus, my fitness routine. Mix it up however you like! But please remember to make sure you consult with your doctor before attempting any physical activity.

4 Replies to “my fitness routine”

  1. OMG, I’m trapped in this same cycle right now. I had a great thing going swimming at lunch, but now they’re renovating the pool at the Y near work. I could go after work, at the Y near home, but the dog has been home all day and it would be selfish of me not to get there RIGHT AWAY. Except she does get a midday walk, and I know she’s not exactly watching the clock. Still, I miss her, and we are going for a walk when I get home, as usual. And I’ve paid for this membership, and I should’ve taken a spin class at lunch instead of swimming, and I’m wasting money and now I feel like a fucking guilty, spendy asshole. Why can I not get off my ass and get back to Zumba or yoga or something, until the pool near work is fixed? Why do I insist on becoming a sleepy shut-in on the weekends, relying on the dog to force me outside, when I know I feel AMAZING in the water not two blocks from my goddamn house? And it is always tomorrow. “Tomorrow,” I said on Saturday, “as soon as we get back from the early morning walk, I’m just grabbing my stuff and going to the pool.” Nope. Warm bed, dog and “Law and Order” were just too inviting.

  2. I read the book “The Brain that Changes Itself” last month and it said that just thinking through a weight-lifting routine will build nearly as much muscle as if you’d actually exercised. So, this thinking thing might work out for you!

  3. Sheila, maybe we can revolutionize fitness by making it more like lying in bed with Law and Order and the dog. I think we can make it happen. We just need to figure out physics or something.

    Jennette, if that book were a true fact, I would be an Olympic athlete and also a Nobel Prize for Literature winner. Why isn’t that book true?

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