35 calories

“It is never too late to be what you might have been.” ― George Eliot

 Love this quote.  My response to it….develop a new routine that makes exercise a habit.  So yesterday started by NEW ROUTINE.  Picked up Sadie at daycare as usual.  Began talking up new toys, playing with new friends, explaining Mommy would be very close and that it wouldn’t be long.  Pulled into the parking lot of the Omni Club and –gulp- parked.  Tone, tanned, teens poured from parking lot to the ‘club’.  Still encouraging Sadie I brazenly grabbed by stuff, grabbed my daughter and strode, with purpose, across the parking lot.  Inside, a girl in a beige chiffon shift with gemstone studded neckline and hem (NO LIE) greeted me in the chippiest of voices.  I scanned my card, asked for the daycare and prayed no one would tell me I didn’t belong here.  Through the daycare door we went when suddenly I couldn’t breathe.  Panic attack?  Nope.  Sadie was clinging to me with the ferociousness of a tree monkey.  Fat arms squeezing my neck in a grip that would make an anaconda proud.  I kept talking about all the cool toys and how much fun she was going to have.  Her answer, “NO!” Squeeze.  Over her head I warned the daycare worker of her shyness and her fear of strangers.  I warned her of my plan, “On 3 I am going to peel her off of me—thrust her to you and make a run for it.  I’ll be right outside the door in case it’s bad. She should only cry and few minutes.”  1-2-3, peel, thrust and flee.  Wails followed me out the door.  So here I am, out of my element anyway, lurking in a doorway in the middle ornate lobby of a work out facility being gawked at by toned, tanned, teens and listening to my daughter wail.  Oh yeah, this was going well.  After what seemed like hours the wailing stopped.  I peeked over the partition, cleared my throat to get attention and raised by eyebrows to the daycare worker.  She held out her hand and made the universal so-so sign.  I took that as a positive sign and began Stage 2 of project NEW ROUTINE. 

 Locker room.  Toned, tanned ladies in various stages of sweat and dress were there.  There were a few less teens and a few more non-teens so I felt a little better though I did sneak into a bathroom stall like a pre-pubescent teen in gym class to dress.  Dressed, I hit the gym floor.  Holy mother of….machine after machine after machine stared back at me.  As I made my way to where my husband waited for me (THANK GOD).  I pretended not to panic as we made our way to the cardio area.  My reslove left me as soon as we climbed on this tortorus device that made you use your feet and arms in opposite movements.  I pressed buttons and claimed, “MINE IS BROKEN” like the hooker in Pretty-Woman who didn’t know how to use her opera glasses.  My husband patiently said, “move your feet”.  I did and lights flared and buttons beeped.  “Oh”.  The machine started moving.  I moved with it.  For about 3 seconds I was in the ZONE.  Then I noticed that this hurt.  Plus, despite the fact that my feet were in holders I felt like I couldn’t keep pace with the machine.  I pressed buttons randomly.  That didn’t work so well.  I guess the buttons actually make it harder.  “ouch”  I whined.  My husband wisely didn’t comment.  I took his silence as he-must-not-have-heard-me and said louder, “this hurts!” Guess he heard me both times because he told me that this was just warm up and would be over in a few minutes.  No way I was lasting 10 minutes on this thing.  In front of me was a simple looking bike with a nice, big old lady seat.  I jumped/fell off the complicated machine and made my way to the bike.  Problem.  The seat was about 5 feet from the pedals.  I tried to move it but it wouldn’t budge.  Now I was freaked out, “I don’t even know how to move the seat!” I shrilled.  Phil, ever patient, climbed off his machine, walked over and touched an obvious seat moving lever and viola, the seat slid up.  “You didn’t have to get off your machine, you could have told me,” I muttered.  Wordlessly, he got back on his machine and left me with the bike.  I climbed on, pressed the button and NOTHING.  Pressed another button.  NOTHING.  I am in tears.  Oh great, I got the only broken machine in the whole place.  I got up.  Moved to the next seat, expertly flipped the lever and climbed on.  Pressed the button and….NOTHING.  As I hoisted myself up to get off the bike and out of this gym I noticed a sign with big letters: TO START BEGIN PEDALING.  Oh.  Tried that.  It worked.  Cool.

 Now that I am on a machine that doesn’t make me look like I am having a seizure I am okay.  I pedal away.  I increase the difficulty.  I use the heart monitor and pat myself on the back when I see that I am on par for my age at this level.  Sweat forms.  Legs burn.  Minutes on “time elapsed’ creep up.  Calories burned indicator goes to double digits.  Alright!!  I am doing this.

 A toned, tanned, teen walks in front of my machine.  Confident now I wave and smile thinking she’s someone from the locker room.  She waves back.  Then she stops in front of my machine.  My heart sinks.  She’s the daycare worker.  “You need to come get Sadie.”  ERRREEETTTT.  My bike stops.  “Okay,” I say dropping my head in embarrassement.  I feel like 50 pair of eyes follow me on my walk of shame thru the machines into the kid zone.   

 Total stress time:  35 minutes.

Total workout time:  10 minutes.

Calories burned:  35




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