Tag Archives: treadmill

Smelly, Happy Violet

6 May

I’m officially addicted to the gym.

Every morning, before work, I head to the gym at 5:00 am. I do a bit of cardio, then some weight training, before I head to the locker room to shower and dress for the day. Last week, I slept through my alarm and woke up with just enough time to shower and dress before work, and I had to miss the gym. It ruined my whole day: I was irritable and tired because I didn’t get my morning adrenaline rush.

I love my private time at the gym. (And not just because I can shower without a toddler whining in the background.) My work outs put me in touch with my body. I feel every stretch, strain, and ache. I can feel my endurance picking up. I used to hate with a passion dislike running. I would fast-walk on an incline on the treadmill, but if I tried to run, I’d last MAYBE a minute. Maybe. Yesterday, after 30 minutes of high-intensity cardio on the elliptical machine, I headed over to the treadmill for what I thought would be my cool-down. I was bored at my medium walking pace, so I upped the ante and started running. I kept my finger on the speed button, assuming that I’d need to slow down after a minute or so. Three minutes later, I was still running strong. Two minutes after that, I felt a little tired and reduced my speed, but that only lasted a minute or two. I was in awe of myself. Never in my life could I do that before.

In my pre-baby days, I was a gym rat. I had a personal trainer for a while, and I’d go to the gym religiously after work. (Back then, I would sleep until the absolute last minute before I had to get up and go to work. Morning workouts were for early birds and dedicated people, of which I was neither.) The staff all knew me on a first-name basis. I was fit and healthy. (But I still couldn’t run.) When I learned I was pregnant, my OB put me on “pelvic rest” because Pterodactyl hadn’t implanted correctly, and at the top of the No-No List was working out. Once I received clearance to return to my exercise routine, I was so out-of-shape and under-motivated that I just quit. That’s how I managed to gain 51 pounds during my pregnancy; I was a slug. My couch cushions had a better workout than me by simply supporting my fat ass. I’ve been fighting my body all 12 months of the baby’s life to get back into my stylish pre-pregnancy clothes. I’m finally winning.

The gym is my place, during my time. I’m nobody’s mother, wife, teacher, or friend. I’m just me. I can read my Kindle while doing my cardio without interruption. I can focus on my needs entirely, even if it’s just for an hour a day. I sweat, I stink, and I smile.

What do you do when you need “Me Time?” Do you exercise like me? Do you scrapbook/knit/paint? Shop?

A Salute to the Chubsters at My Gym

19 Mar

This morning, while running on the elliptical machine at my gym, I was sandwiched between two rather large women. They were both working up a huge sweat, and after a little nosy snooping, I noticed that they were running on higher inclines and higher resistance levels than I was. It took every ounce of class in me not to lean over and give them each a high five. Here’s why:

If there’s anything America has an excess of, it’s victims and fatties. Often, these two characteristics are found within the same person. We love our McDonalds, our frozen dinners filled to the brim with preservatives, and our Lays potato chips. Americans live to eat, as opposed to many other people groups, who eat to live. We’re also a bunch of victims. We whine when our own decisions render us in bad circumstances and seek to blame everyone else for our misfortunes. How did we become so sue-happy? Because some asshole with no hand-eye coordination spilled some McDonalds (See? There it is again!) coffee on her lap. We’re the nation that reminds people that our overactive thyroid/bum knee/whatever prevents us from exercising and making healthy food choices. I loathe these people. My daddy, The Irreverent Reptile, and I, even have a game where we make fun of the Victimology of America.

But those plump women in the gym? They’re doing something about it. They’re not in line for the passive yoga class; they’re pumping iron in the free-weight section. They’re running like the cops are chasing ‘em on the treadmills. They’re taking control of their lives and opposing the victim culture so many people embrace.

You go, Chubby Chicks. You kick ass in kickboxing, and show me what’s up at the bench press. You continue defying stereotypes. Get rid of that fat, and show the world that you’re not just another statistic.

High fucking five!

(Oh, and I want to give a little shout out to the massively pregnant woman I saw there, too. I quit the gym at the beginning of my third trimester, but this bitch was running at full-speed with her tight little baby bump bouncing in rhythm to the music on her iPod. Rock on, Mommy!)


© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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