Getting Started...

I've never been a fan of physical fitness. As the only girl in a family of five kids I was content to let my brothers join sports and I could always be the token cheerleader. By cheerleader, I don't mean in a formal sense, that would fall under the category of exercise. No, I would sit in the stands and cheer "Hit that ball!!" Until my Dad tells me, "That’s not your brother's team up to bat." Oops, then I would continue to pretend to be interested until I could scam a dollar from my parents to go to the concession stand. I've also never tried to hide my distaste for exercise. I knew way back in grade school when I was being picked last for the team it was because, for lack of a better term, I sucked. I was the girl that would always get the position of playing outfield which really meant; keep her away from the ball at all costs. If my team had the misfortune of someone hitting it my way, I would run in the other direction and hide my face. No sir, I didn't want anything to do with catching that ball. Catching, throwing or hitting balls of any kind were not on my list of priorities. I jammed my finger once playing Volleyball and couldn't get my favorite ring on for a month, that was my first sports related injury and the list eventually grew. Yeah, I would hurt myself avoiding the game, not actually playing it. So you can imagine that as I got older and didn't have to attend gym class, I stayed away from sports and physical fitness at all costs. If at a barbeque some genius had the idea of putting together a softball game I all of a sudden find that cleaning the kitchen is the most important task in the world and it simply cannot wait another minute. Avoidance is key, but if pushed I decline and simply say, "I'm not any good". Oh, I've had plenty of people claim to me "I'm not that good either, it' just for fun." Bullshit, I have a lifetime lack of achievement award in not being good, don't challenge me and no, I don't keep score either in case you were wondering. Label me prissy if you will but my friends will tell you, I'm not an outdoor person. Besides the fact that my skin fries like bacon in a microwave, I'm not a fan of bugs, dirt or things that make you itch either. Although I do like outdoor malls, cabanas and occasionally eating at an outdoor patio, I'm not all bad. So imagine me now being faced with having to exercise, ahem, regularly. Ick. I know I don't have a choice, my current condition requires that I exercise to make my heart stronger. Quickly it becomes clear to me that suffering a heart attack would be far worse than suffering a panic attack at the gym. So I turn to the one person I know will help me the most, my husband. They say opposites attract, which is proven by the fact that my husband is a workout fiend. He loves it, and stays in really good physical shape. Early in our relationship I tried going to the gym with him, but I just felt like I was dating my gym teacher and that was too disturbing to continue. We happily concurred I would give up the working out, not the relationship. Now, I need his help and I relent to once again trying to work out with him. My one rule is, only machines. No free weight lifting, I want something else do most of the work and I'm just along for the ride so I decide to try the elliptical machine. Marc climbs on a bike behind me and I begin to make friends with the machine, select a very easy workout and start moving. After two minutes I feel like my legs are going to spontaneously explode, yes, I said two minutes. I keep going and distract my mind by trying to not look like an ass which I decide is going to be a full time job. The only saving grace I have is that my fellow haters of exercise have all joined the club to make good on their New Year's resolution and they look just as out of place as I do. I will miss them come February. Okay, I peek at the timer and I'm surprised to see that I'm coming up on 10 minutes. My goal is 15 so I keep pushing, almost there. Somewhere around minute 12 I started writing a goodbye letter to my loved ones in my head and by 13 I was dividing up my worldly possessions. I'm happy to say, I made it to 15 minutes without needing CPR. My first goal, tackled. It was a small step but I took it and I'm owning it. Now I get off the machine and my head is a little woozy, what with the heart rate up and the small victory party going on up there, I'm not surprised. I stride past Marc on the bike and he tells me "Good Job". I need to get a towel and sanitize the machine; now that I'm a clubber I'm all in the know about the rules. I walk back head held high and begin to clean my machine, I shined that thing up good, it was the least I could after it brought me so much pride. I step off to go throw the towel in the basket and I hear my husband shout, very loudly..."WRONG ONE!" What? I look back at the machine I just wiped down and notice my water and magazine on the machine NEXT to it. Aww, damn it. Now I can’t help but wondering, does this place have a concession stand?