Ten years ago I was a lean, mean fitness machine. I was a size 2 and on a good day I ran a nine-minute mile. I was trying to get a job with the FBI as an agent (me? with a badge and a gun? yes!) and was training to pass the next round of testing: the physical tests. I loved it. I loved feeling strong and powerful and being lean but I ended up shredding the cartilage in my right knee and finding out I had arthritis, the kind you're not supposed to get until you're well past 60. I let it get the best of me, physically and emotionally, and stopped working out altogether about a year later.
I spent the next ten years on the couch eating chips and gaining weight. The change was never drastic or egregious so I told myself I'd do something about it when it was time. It must be time because something snapped in my head over Labor Day weekend. I wish I could bottle and sell the drive I'm feeling right now because I could make a fortune, get liposuction and get back to my TV shows.
Knowing that was unlikely, I marched my happy bootilicious ass to the YMCA on Tuesday after the holiday and renewed my membership. So far I've walked four miles on my own one night and have been to a yoga class, a water class and a spinning class. And I was even out of town for two days!
So far the only downside is that I'm pretty sure the mid-60s water class instructor has a crush on me. She constantly stared at my boobs in class (Hello! I can SEE you!) and spent an extra 30 minutes with me after class explaining that her class might not be strenuous enough for me but that I should come back but also do all these other exercises on my own. She even got my phone number out of my file and called me under the guise of checking on me. I knew meeting someone was a possible added bonus of membership but this is not what I was hoping for. I switched classes and will be keeping my eye on that one.
We're watching you.
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