If I were one of the Spice Girls, I would not have been Sporty Spice. I would like to think I was Posh Spice. In all reality, I probably would have been called Bossy Spice, or another B-word Spice. Whatever, I digress...Sporty Spice.
I'm not athletic. Not even kinda. I was the girl who, in Jr. High sports, told the coach, "Don't worry, it won't hurt my feelings if you don't play me. My parents won't be mad, they know. I'm happy to sit on the bench." And sit on the bench I did. I kept score, I started chants, I supplied the gum and sunflower seeds. I was the best bench sitter you ever did see. If anything, you could KINDA say that I golfed. But, already, this is one of those things that I think I remember me being better than I actually was. I'm not coordinated. I'm not fast. I'm kinda strong, but weight lifting never appealed to me as an actual sport. Most importantly...I hate to sweat. And, I'm a sweat-er. Like the kind of sweat-er who can stand in an air conditioned room, look at the sun, think about exercise, and start to sweat. I come from a long line of sweat-ers. I can't help it. Some people come from a line of athletes, of jumpers or runners or throwers...I come from sweat-ers.
In my adult years I have tried. I have been on a few intramural teams. I have joined gyms. I have jogged. I've even entered a few races. Still, it just does not appeal. Enter Dan. Dan is not particularly athletic (sorry, love), but he does enjoy working out. (Gag.) He remembers the long-term, over-all health benefits of exercise and wants that for himself, and (woe is me) me. Recently he has started a referral relationship with a trainer at a gym. He really enjoys the approach this guy takes, and has had good results for some patients. Well, my sweet Dan is a fast learner. He knows that if he non-chalantly mentions the gym, I won't go. If he suggests we "go together sometime", I'll put it off 'til the next blue moon. Even if he offers to babysit and heavily pushes me to go, I'll just push back and stay in close proximity to my couch. BUT, (again, woe is me) he knows that if there is an appointment made with my name on it, not only will I not miss it, but I won't be late. This brings us to last Tuesday, 10:00am. I went to a gym.
It was torture. As the initial appointment with a trainer often begins with assessments, this one did too. I'm telling you, ladies, you cannot suck in and change your body fat percentage. You can't take back last night's dessert as you step onto the scale. And if your legs are going to quiver doing squats, there is little you can do to tell them to stop it! The only saving grace was that the dear trainer didn't tell me any numbers, didn't make any faces or noises, and when I asked "Did score better than Dan on anything?" with so much hope in my eyes, he kindly said "On some things...". I like him. After all, if I'm going to play, I'm going to win, even if it's just due to someone else's charity.
Since, I've been back twice. We spent some money, and therefore, I'll go. (Yet another thing my crafty husband has picked up about me.) I am still uncoordinated. I still hate to sweat. I still miss my couch while I'm there, but (shhhhhh, don't tell him) I feel pretty good about going.