Jello Legs

Finally made it to the gym. Couldn’t pay for an entire month without actually seeing the inside or sitting on one of those bicycle machines, now could I? One small step for Eve, one big step for Eve’s behind. No, I’m not over proportioned or flabby really. But those of you who know me (I’m assuming all of you or you wouldn’t be reading this oh so fascinating blog) know that a walk around the block is my idea of a marathon. The most regular exercise I’ve gotten in a long time is walking up the stairs at work to the second floor and if it didn’t have a landing half way up there, I probably would concede to the elevator. So yes, it is a big step for Eve.

And my trainer, you ask. Yes. I said trainer. He’s not only an ex-marine. He used to train marines. Gloat gloat, gloat gloat. I should’ve known what I was in for when he left us on the bikes for 10 minutes as a “warm up.” Yes. I said 10 minutes as though that were a long time. And I meant it. We pushed up, curled up, jumped up, lifted up and bent our bodies into strange positions. It hurt. Word to the wise. He’ll keep asking “how are you feeling” until long after you feel like dieing. You’ve got to come up with a good excuse, like dizziness or severely labored breathing before you get a break. Luckily, or unluckily to be more precise, I experienced both symptoms and thus ended the journey to hell before actually pulling into the station.

Have your legs ever felt like jello? Real jello? In all reality, it was a decent experience. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to pay to go through that on a weekly basis. But I feel a bit more confident walking into the gym. You know, like I almost have a right to be there. I plan to become familiar with some bicycles or walking machines and take a pilates class or two for my abs. In fact, I would even venture to say that I want to go back. I want to get healthy. Tomorrow, my stiff, sore glutes may try to convince me otherwise. So keep asking me about it or the glutes may win.

Eve