Back several years ago, I decided to do something healthy for myself. I took the plunge and became a full-fledged member of a health club. This club was the kind where you see strapping young men with muscle shirts – and the muscles in them – and curvaceous women scantily clad in thong leotards, which of course no self respecting woman over the age of …… let me rephrase that…. MY age…. Would dare try to wear!
Joining the health club was a no option choice. I worked in an office where cakes, candy, donuts and potlucks were a way of life. All that good food gave my body an extra dimension – one I was not too happy about.
So despite the grumbling over the cost, the idea of embarrassing myself in front of scads of gorgeous shaped young bodies and actually having to do some real exercise, I bit the bullet and wrote the check.
The first item on the club policy’s list was to have the club’s physician conduct a fitness test to ensure I was healthy enough to spend my money on some dumb-bells. I filled out all the forms, answered all the questions – except how old I was and how much I weighed.
The physician, with his stony face, informed me he needed to have ALL the information in order to assess my training needs. He made it sound like I was enrolling in obedience class.
So, glaring at him, I wrote down some numbers in the age and weight brackets just as he asked, daring him to say another word.
He said another word all right. He looked at me, handed the forms back and said “I want the CORRECT numbers. I don’t know what made him think they weren’t the right ones.
He then put me on a Lifecycle machine and told me to keep the RPMs at 80 mph. First I had to get the pedals moving…. And sitting on that seat….well, now I understand why they call it a “banana” seat! I was lucky to be able to get the darn thing going at all much less at 80 mph. Then he set it on level four, which must be for the guys out there on the gym floor playing with those big, round manhole covers.
I pedaled up longer, higher, steeper hills then the cyclists on the Tour de France. Every couple of minutes the doctor would look at me through the glass window separating us, nod and give me a little smile – I think it was a smirk. I grinned back at him realizing the glass window was probably bullet proof.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he came into the “how fit are we” room and said “Ok you’re finished.” How right he was! I toppled off the machine and with rubbery legs and a sore bottom, wobbled back to his desk and sat down – gingerly!
He then handed me a list of all the exercises I needed to put this body back in shape, along with the repetitions and the number of days each week I was supposed to do them.
The list was nearly two pages long!
He sent me – list in hand – to the main workout area where the receptionist called for THE TRAINER.
Each brand new member gets their own individual trainer for the first few workouts to show him, or her in my case, the ropes. (I would loved to have shown that doctor some rope.)
Over walked a huge, muscular, big hunk of a man. Did I mention he was huge? This was my trainer? At that moment, I began looking for the nearest exit. This man looked like he could single-handedly lift a house off its foundation! Before I knew it, he grabbed my hand and shook it like it was attached to one of those WW whatever wrestlers. Thank goodness I’m ambidextrous and can write with my left hand.
He started me on the exercycle – the twin to the Lifecycle and said I would have to start with this machine each time I came to the gym as it would warm up my leg muscles. Not that they weren’t already warm. By the time I finished this part of the exercise program, my leg muscles definitely were warmed up – they were burning, as was my behind – again – with another of those skinny banana seats! Why do they not put seats on those bikes that would accommodate behinds like mine?
Then he started me on the other machines, rather, they started on me. I did leg presses, leg lifts, shoulder lifts, tricep pulls, bicep pulls, abdominal crunches and last but definitely not least the Butt Blaster. That is one machine that does exactly what it says.
By the time I was finished with my routine, I was finished. My trainer, Mr. Big Hunk, (did I mention he was huge?) was grinning ear to ear as he helped me crawl my way to the treadmill informing me that I had another 20 minutes to go – walking briskly at four – count ‘em – four mph (that miles per hour for all you non athletic types).
He did take pity on me when I gave him a sad, pathetic look and lowered the speed to 3.5 mph.
Two full hours after I arrived at the gym, I carefully waddled and limped my way out to my car. Why do they call it a “health club” when you are in so much pain afterwards?
I sat in my car, with its nice full, cushiony, soft seat and headed home. When I arrived home, I cautiously put one foot on the concrete driveway, picked up my other foot with both hands transferring it to the driveway as well, and putting all my weight on the door, slithered down the side of the car. As I sat there, I ruminated on why I was doing this to myself. Stumbling and staggering, I made it to the front door holding on to anything I could grab and once in the house, I collapsed on the couch and passed out!
One full week after joining the “club” and working out semi-faithfully, I could walk out of the gym standing upright with just a slight rubbery wiggle to my legs.
I started to feel pretty good and I thought I noticed a difference in my hips and waist and even my derriere – thanks to the Butt Blaster.
I told all my friends how wonderful working out was and how great I felt afterward. I had a kind of superior feeling when I mentioned it to them especially when they were sitting on their sofas in front of the television.
I was off lifting those weights, pumping that iron and crunching those abs and maybe, someday, I would have Buns of Steel!
Fast forward to several years later…. The only iron I’m pumping is my daily intake of iron tablets, my abs can be found somewhere near my waist wherever that has gone and my buns can best be compared to hamburger buns – soft and doughy!
Joining the health club was a no option choice. I worked in an office where cakes, candy, donuts and potlucks were a way of life. All that good food gave my body an extra dimension – one I was not too happy about.
So despite the grumbling over the cost, the idea of embarrassing myself in front of scads of gorgeous shaped young bodies and actually having to do some real exercise, I bit the bullet and wrote the check.
The first item on the club policy’s list was to have the club’s physician conduct a fitness test to ensure I was healthy enough to spend my money on some dumb-bells. I filled out all the forms, answered all the questions – except how old I was and how much I weighed.
The physician, with his stony face, informed me he needed to have ALL the information in order to assess my training needs. He made it sound like I was enrolling in obedience class.
So, glaring at him, I wrote down some numbers in the age and weight brackets just as he asked, daring him to say another word.
He said another word all right. He looked at me, handed the forms back and said “I want the CORRECT numbers. I don’t know what made him think they weren’t the right ones.
He then put me on a Lifecycle machine and told me to keep the RPMs at 80 mph. First I had to get the pedals moving…. And sitting on that seat….well, now I understand why they call it a “banana” seat! I was lucky to be able to get the darn thing going at all much less at 80 mph. Then he set it on level four, which must be for the guys out there on the gym floor playing with those big, round manhole covers.
I pedaled up longer, higher, steeper hills then the cyclists on the Tour de France. Every couple of minutes the doctor would look at me through the glass window separating us, nod and give me a little smile – I think it was a smirk. I grinned back at him realizing the glass window was probably bullet proof.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he came into the “how fit are we” room and said “Ok you’re finished.” How right he was! I toppled off the machine and with rubbery legs and a sore bottom, wobbled back to his desk and sat down – gingerly!
He then handed me a list of all the exercises I needed to put this body back in shape, along with the repetitions and the number of days each week I was supposed to do them.
The list was nearly two pages long!
He sent me – list in hand – to the main workout area where the receptionist called for THE TRAINER.
Each brand new member gets their own individual trainer for the first few workouts to show him, or her in my case, the ropes. (I would loved to have shown that doctor some rope.)
Over walked a huge, muscular, big hunk of a man. Did I mention he was huge? This was my trainer? At that moment, I began looking for the nearest exit. This man looked like he could single-handedly lift a house off its foundation! Before I knew it, he grabbed my hand and shook it like it was attached to one of those WW whatever wrestlers. Thank goodness I’m ambidextrous and can write with my left hand.
He started me on the exercycle – the twin to the Lifecycle and said I would have to start with this machine each time I came to the gym as it would warm up my leg muscles. Not that they weren’t already warm. By the time I finished this part of the exercise program, my leg muscles definitely were warmed up – they were burning, as was my behind – again – with another of those skinny banana seats! Why do they not put seats on those bikes that would accommodate behinds like mine?
Then he started me on the other machines, rather, they started on me. I did leg presses, leg lifts, shoulder lifts, tricep pulls, bicep pulls, abdominal crunches and last but definitely not least the Butt Blaster. That is one machine that does exactly what it says.
By the time I was finished with my routine, I was finished. My trainer, Mr. Big Hunk, (did I mention he was huge?) was grinning ear to ear as he helped me crawl my way to the treadmill informing me that I had another 20 minutes to go – walking briskly at four – count ‘em – four mph (that miles per hour for all you non athletic types).
He did take pity on me when I gave him a sad, pathetic look and lowered the speed to 3.5 mph.
Two full hours after I arrived at the gym, I carefully waddled and limped my way out to my car. Why do they call it a “health club” when you are in so much pain afterwards?
I sat in my car, with its nice full, cushiony, soft seat and headed home. When I arrived home, I cautiously put one foot on the concrete driveway, picked up my other foot with both hands transferring it to the driveway as well, and putting all my weight on the door, slithered down the side of the car. As I sat there, I ruminated on why I was doing this to myself. Stumbling and staggering, I made it to the front door holding on to anything I could grab and once in the house, I collapsed on the couch and passed out!
One full week after joining the “club” and working out semi-faithfully, I could walk out of the gym standing upright with just a slight rubbery wiggle to my legs.
I started to feel pretty good and I thought I noticed a difference in my hips and waist and even my derriere – thanks to the Butt Blaster.
I told all my friends how wonderful working out was and how great I felt afterward. I had a kind of superior feeling when I mentioned it to them especially when they were sitting on their sofas in front of the television.
I was off lifting those weights, pumping that iron and crunching those abs and maybe, someday, I would have Buns of Steel!
Fast forward to several years later…. The only iron I’m pumping is my daily intake of iron tablets, my abs can be found somewhere near my waist wherever that has gone and my buns can best be compared to hamburger buns – soft and doughy!
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