Crazy Woman

I am taking my chunky butt to the gym (first time in my life I've joined one) because I got FAT this fall. 

 

Picture the moment: 

 

I'm groggy. I'm walking from my warm car, through a bitter, biting wind in 39 degree darkness with a hint of damp, to what I consider to be a glorified self-torture chamber.  My bed-head hair is all over the place because it's 5:30am and whothehellcaresorisgonnanotice. 

 

And as I get near the door, a blonde woman bursts outside and accosts me.  I don't know what's happening. I nearly reach for my wallet, thinking I'm being mugged.  The mental fog clears and I realize it's my cousin's wife, Laura.  She's perky and PUMPED about being at the gym.  We walk in together as I mumble responses to her enthusiasm.  She teases me for working out in dress shoes. Then she runs off back to the treadmill.  Dammit. I left my gym shoes in the car.  I trudge back out.

 

Thirty minutes later, I'm huffing and puffing, attempting a meager, nay pathetic, amount of sit-ups.  I open my eyes and Laura's standing over me. PUMPED.  "COME TO SPIN CLASS!!!!! C'MON!" No way, I explain.  "C'MON!!!" Uh-uh.  "YOU'RE COMING TO ONE NEXT TIME. YOU CAN BE IN THE BACK AND DO YOUR OWN THING!" The best I can give her is a blank stare. No one, let alone a mother of infants, should be this excited before 6am.   She runs off to spin class. I resolve to be a gym ninja, unseen and in the shadows, from that point forward.  

 

You will not motivate me, woman! You hear me! You will NOT!