Being that going to the gym is a perfectly acceptable way to spend an hour or two and also because of the fact that it's just the right thing to do, I go. But I don't imagine that I'm the only one there who has had to force herself into spandex and through the double doors into that land of grunts and groans, sweaty shirts and shaky knees.I've been going to the gym now for 19 years. 19 years of breathlessly keeping up in aerobics classes, treadmills on which I fancy myself hamster-like, and machines where I press against weight plates that seem designed to shred my muscles into ribbons.
And I still have cellulite.
I hate like hell working out next to those buff women in half tops and iPod holders that wrap around their upper arms and don't make a dent because there's no flesh to sink in to. Nothing on them jiggles even though they are moving their bodies at top speed and something, anything should be moving independently. Stuff on me moves independently all the time whether or not I'm going at top speed.
Usually I spend the whole time at the gym thinking about what I'm going to eat when I get out. I also think about other things, i.e., the fact that I wish I was anywhere but there, even at the doctor's office getting a strep test. Yet, I persevere because I naively think that enough hard work will earn me the thighs that I deserve and do away with the upper arms that I inherited directly from my Bubbie.
Somehow that never happens.
2 comments:
You're an inspiration Alisa, although you aren't getting the results you think you want. Just remember, guys like a little jiggle on women; the hard ones might have larger members than we do.
Dennis you are sure to keep me on my toes with that insight! You have also inspired me to accept my body for what it is, lest any man think...well, what you said. :-)
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