So I broke down and finally joined a gym a few months ago. Planet Fitness to be exact. It was a feeble attempt to firm up a bit before I slipped into a white dress and married a Hero. Some of my friends have scoffed at me because I'm small in size and tiny in stature. But Mother Nature is an equal opportunity attacker and as a matter of fairness, she leaves dimples on all butts regardless of the size.
Admittedly in theory, I'm anti-exercise. In theory I think people who sweat by choice are nuts. But then there's reality. Reality is...I love a man who runs five miles for fun. FOR FUN! And somehow with that knowledge, a sense of duty started to grow. If Lover Boy can go to PT and do a hundred sit-ups before Dunkin' Donuts even makes the coffee, can't I at least do my part to keep the butt dimples at bay? If I get to keep a sexy soldier, shouldn't I make sure I'm pulling my weight as the hot wife? Kinda seems like the least I can do. My patriotic duty and what not. So I joined said gym to work on said butt to make said soldier drool even more.
When I told Lover Boy (aka My Pet Monster) that I wanted to join a gym, he laughed and said that I was perfect. I told him that I wanted to look better and he said he can't imagine how I could possibly look any hotter. I told him I wanted him to always look at me and say "Hot Damn! That's MY girl." He laughed and said "I'm always going to say that no matter if you join a gym or not." (As a side note, let me reassure you that he's not always this perfect. He steals my fries, possesses a mean case of road rage and puts the loaf of bread on top of the fridge where not only can I not reach it but I can't even see it. It sits there until it molds and the kitchen starts to smell.)
My first few weeks at the gym were awful. I experienced an exhaustion that I never knew existed. My lack of physical fitness was frustrating and annoying. When I told Lover Boy that I couldn't handle these workouts, he reassured me that I could. When I told him that I didn't want to go, he said I had to force myself. When I said that I hated it, he said give it time...eventually I would like it. I laughed at his craziness and relished in the fact that he didn't know me nearly as well as he thought he did. Just because he's a sweat addict didn't mean that I ever would be. But I stuck to it just the same because even though it was torture, I had spent money to be allowed such torture. What type of world is this, anyway?
Now I'm going to admit something here that Lover Boy doesn't know. At least not yet. I love the gym . I mean LOVE, LOVE. In a red hearts and pink ribbons kinda way. In a way that surprises me and creates the unusual situation where I'll have to admit he's right. I love the cool air when I first walk in. I love the music that blares overhead somehow inviting you to get moving. I love the twelve TVs and the radio hook-ups (yes, I'm one of the few people in the free world who does not own an IPod). I love the row of gleaming treadmills waiting to move miles going nowhere. I love the torture devices known as elliptical and StairMaster. I love the sweat that comes from working hard. I love the feeling of success from going a few minutes more and just a little bit further. I love my butt...sans dimples!
I even love most of the people (although some of them might be slightly crazy...TWELVE MILES ON A BIKE????????????). Although there was one old guy who I didn't love so much. After awhile, I started to wonder if I was on the StairMaster or on the StareMaster! Seriously, dude....go buy a Hustler. You don't need to lick your chomps while looking at my new firm fanny. I know it's a compliment and thank you very much for that. You, however, are crossing the line between flattering and freaky and you're old enough to be my father. Oh and have I mentioned that my husband is a highly trained American Soldier who believes it is his responsibility to protect his country, his home and his family? I've seen his road rage....trust me, he's one soldier you really don't want to piss off. Just thought you might want a heads up. It's probably safer to check out a chef's wife or something. Just throwin' that out there.
So Lover Boy, was right. I love it. He knows me that well. And this blog....well, it's my public acknowledgement of his rightness. I think it's only fair....after all, if he was wrong, I would have just as willingly posted that here as well. (Please note, that I have not said that I'm wrong only that he's right. Those are two vastly different things!)
That's all for now! The rest will come............