The gym

The gym is an interesting place. I have put off going for a long time. I didn't want to walk my droopy, flabby self into a place with mirrors all around, toned, thin, tan people staring at themselves and showing off how fit they are. Then, I found this little place that some of my friends have been talking about. Anyone can go there, but their main target is the average american fatso. Really! So, off I go. I sign up and commit myself to this power strength class three days a week. wow! I am gonna do this!
First day was torture. I am sure this instructor is up all hours of the night imagining new ways to torture our under developed little muscles. I left the gym already aching. The day wears on, no problem. Keep moving, I'm told. Keep those lactic acids from building up. The what? Um, okay, I can keep moving. I have six kids. How can anyone with that many kids just sit? It doesn't happen. I even stand to write my blogs in case I have to take care of something in a hurry!
Then, I went to bed and spent several hours lying still. In the morning I got out of bed and nearly died. My body hurt. A lot. It hurt to lower myself onto the toilet seat. I went again for the second round. It wasn't quite as bad, but I don't think I worked very hard, because I could barely move anyway.
The third day at the gym was murder. Different instructor. Female. I swear female fitness instructors are merciless. They talk sweet, but push us to our death. Fortunately, the class is only 45 mintues long, not quite enough to actually get through death's door.
Week two rolls around. I rise at 4 am and go to it again. And again. I am committed! I am excited to be healthier! As for the mirrors, well, I can see how tortured everyone else in the class is and know that I am not alone!