This summer I decided to do some monumentally stupid. I joined a gym with Junior. Now, I really thought this would be a good thing. After all Junior has wanted to join a gym for a year or so. And frankly, my butt is the size of a small naval vessel so I probably could use a workout or two. Or fifty. Whatever.
Unfortunately, you would think that I would understand that the kid has more energy than I. And yet I am so stupid that I join a gym with him. I swear to you, this is pure torture. For one thing, it’s like working out with the energizer bunny right after he’s received fresh batteries.
For example, the first day at the gym, I need to fill out paperwork. Junior immediately spots spinning machines—a piece of exercise equipment I usually try to avoid because they require a lot of exertion on my part. (Yes, you exercise Nazis out there; I do understand that the whole purpose of exercise is to exert myself, but I’ve never been one to mindlessly follow the crowd. I figure the half hour I spend leisurely reading a book while walking at a snail’s pace on the treadmill is just as beneficial. And it has the added bonus of educating me. As long as you view chick lit as educational, of course.)
Anyhow, Junior leaps onto the spinner and starts pedaling for dear life. Thirty minutes later, we’re all signed up and the kid is still pedaling, gleefully announcing that he’s going 71 miles per hour. I want to kill him. Unfortunately there are people pedaling next to Junior, watching him work that spinning bike like he’s racing Lance Armstrong so I can’t strangle him. That’s too bad, because when he sees me, Junior immediately starts yelling, “Come on Mom, this is so FUN!” And the worst part is, he’s not even huffing or puffing. Seriously. I so want to kill him. I’m out of breath just watching him.
But I am a mom and I do what all moms do. I do not allow my child to see that I would gladly sign his death warrant. I simply sit and spin. For about five minutes. And then I swear to you, I am about to keel over from exertion. I have horrible sweat running in places that I normally do not allow sweat to run. And I fear that my deodorant has gone on strike but honestly, it would be just too humiliating to lift my arm up to check.
I beg the energizer bunny to stop and he does. But only for a minute because he has discovered the treadmill. Finally, an exercise machine I can appreciate. I get on the treadmill next to him and I crack open the latest Jennifer Weiner. I set the machine for manual and start walking at a slow, but heart healthy, pace.
The next thing I know, Junior has the treadmill at breakneck speed with the incline at 12. Who the heck knew the incline went to 12? That’s practically straight up. And the little brat is jogging and laughing while watching a movie on his iPod. I, on the other hand, have no incline and cannot laugh at the funny parts in my book for fear of gasping for air, stumbling and having the stupid treadmill fling me to the back of the room. And after 30 minutes of this, I just need a couch to lie down on so I can complete my transformation from human to potato.
But the energizer bunny has more torture for me. He leaps off the treadmill (after his cool down, of course) and sprints for the elliptical. I can’t even watch. I’m beyond exhausted and I haven’t even done the weight machines yet. So I sit down in a corner and read while Junior goes at heaven-knows-what-speed on the elliptical for a while. When he’s done, he bounces over to me and I notice something horrifying.
My child, my only son, has not broken a sweat. I, on the other hand, am drenched, tired, hungry, and thirsty and I just want to go home. On the way out, while I drag myself to the car, Junior stops to spin for a minute or tow, then yells at me, “Isn’t this great? And we get to come here everyday!”
Thinner thighs had better be worth this torture. Because if they aren’t, I’m so signing that death warrant.Add me to your rss reader | Become a Fan on Facebook!