This is not a joke. I have actually been...working out. I wish I could say this was part of a "new me" or a resolution or that I am finally listening to my doctor, but honestly after Bring a Bachelor to Church weekend flopped, I have moved to the gym to meet guys.
This nonsense started Christmas night when my father asked my brother if he wanted to go to the gym the next morning. At this point, I have been denied the Manu Ginobili jersey I so desperately want for 3 consecutive Christmases and birthdays. Meanwhile, my brothers get $20 Nike socks AND jerseys. I have been a victim of traditional gender roles, something I'm normally a fan of. So after my brother declined, I took one for the team (my Spurs) and said I would go, thinking maybe my father would be more inclined to get me an NBA jersey to show off my guns if I actually had aforementioned guns.
The first day I worked out was a leg day. I thought we were taking it easy, we being myself my father and my aunt, or my "success squad" as Cosmo's workout section would call them. Instead of lifting weights we repeated a circuit of lunges, squats, planks and pushups. I definitely felt it but I didn't think I would be terribly sore the next morning. I was wrong. I awoke pleasantly surprised because I felt fine. Then I moved. I spent the rest of that day avoiding all activities that required movement of the legs. That night my family went to watch my brother play basketball and my dad moved seats three times before the game started, leading us up and down the bleachers. When I asked him to carry me he laughed as if I was joking.
As bad as my body ached after the first day, I really felt like I was hitting my stride my second day, when I was able to watch two of my favorite programs, Sex and the City and Jeopardy! while burning a mean 2 calories per minute walking a 15 minute mile on the elliptical. I soon learned that soreness only really set in once I got home and my
alleged muscles rested for a bit. While still at the gym, my big enemy
was complete loss of sensation. I made this revelation as I was
laying on a bench with 70 pounds on a bar my dad thought I could lift. I managed to keep it off my trachea until someone noticed, but it took a few seconds of frantic struggling to make eye contact. My arms soon went numb and I started accidentally slamming doors on everyone because every attempt to support weight with my noodle limbs was futile. Someone tried to high
five me and I had to use my left hand to raise and position my right
palm to receive contact.
On my third day of being a fitness guru, we hit arms after 2 episodes of How I Met Your Mother on the elliptical. I was delighted to find that I could do twelve whole assisted pull-ups. I'm pretty sure I could have done more if the television showing Dr. Phil had been angled toward my machine. After several rounds of curls and rows, my Dad suggested dips and I was psyched to go to Taco Bell after we finished. Spoiler alert...not the dip he was referring to. I realized just how far I still have to go when attempting to curl a 30 pound bar halfway into our workout. My dad and aunt started talking and didn't realize I was just blankly staring at the bar. When telekinesis didn't work I tried to exorcise my exercise and whispered "the power of Christ compels you!" a few times. Eventually dad remembered I existed and got me the baby weights. Talk about insulting.
My father keeps mentioning different workouts he wants to try, the one that sticks out in my mind most is the Terry Crews fitness plan. I don't know Mr. Crews as a fitness figure, but I have seen White Chicks. I have seen Terry's 12-pack enough to know that whatever he's doing is NOT for me. I keep telling my dad, I don't want to get too buff.
I will leave you with this nugget of assurance from my youngest brother. "Working out isn't hard. It's just hard for you." Truer words have never been muttered more smugly.
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