I see ladies all the time in grocery stores or Wal-Mart or eating lunch with their kids who have obviously just come from the gym. The spandex outfits are perfectly matched and they carry themselves with an air of spunk. Like, “While you were teaching my child how to read, I was on the elliptical. And I am exhausted!”
Don’t get me started.
They are the women who go to exercise during their lunch break and somehow lose 6 pounds but only show a wee bit of sweat around their collar bone. It’s really more of a sheen, not a sweat.
They are the women like the high schooler today in the gym- I call her “Sassy 17”. She worked out for a solid hour with JEWELRY ON and HER HAIR DOWN. She’s doing the row boat machine thingy with her hair blowing in the breeze. Then Sassy 17 grabs her phone and starts talking like she’s been sitting around. No huffing or puffing. Just checkin’ in with her galpals. Back to rowing. But no ponytail necessary.
Then…. there is me.
I am an ugly sweater.
My face? It turns a violent shade of red. My hair? It’s like I have my own irrigation system up there. Soaked. In minutes. My shirt? It looks like someone strategically tie died it… in the most unflattering places. Jewelry? Please. My ring would squeeze my finger like an anaconda. No thanks.
And so there I am. Between Sassy 17 and Ninja Vlad, my trainer. [That’s really his name. The Vlad part. The Ninja part is just because.] And I look like I’ve been through the carwash.
It could be worse. At least I’m not a disgusting sweater. We all know that guy at the gym. And let me say, Disgusting Sweater, that I had sympathy for you until you LAID YOUR NASTY SELF DOWN ON MY MAT TO STRETCH YOUR BACK.
I just threw up a little in my mouth remembering it.
The upside? At least I’m exercising.
The downside? I sweat like a man but lift weights like a school girl.
Pride hath no home on a blog.
[If you are a single gentleman that is considering or has ever considered dating me, please disregard this blog post. It is all completely false… ish… ahem….and for the pure enjoyment of my readership. Sorta. In reality, I resemble Sassy 17. Call me “Sassy 27”. Uhhh… let’s just not go on a jog, okay?]