Readership,
Once again, my sister Abby has taken over my mind grapes and has contributed to this blog. Here she is responding to an email sent to her from an eager fan of her tight abs.
Enjoy.
Dear Abby,
Hi! I’m a young person who has resolved to get into working out this year! I know that working out is the equivalent of sliding down a banister of broken glass and landing in a pool of lemon juice but somehow you work up the gumption to do it on the daily!
How can I be more like you?
Sincerely,
Jared (of Subway)
Dear Fattie (not your name I know, but I am going to call you that)
Thanks for writing; not like I have anything better to do than respond. But last I checked, my Facebook profile still said “Single”, so I guess I have some spare time. Want to work out more? Let me tell you, it is a dangerous world out there for those trying to be fit or - lets be honest - burn off those cookies I shoved in my face last night while watching Project Runway.
THE HUNT
To begin, you must find a place where this cursed experience will occur. You may think that this is the easiest part considering all the gyms out there. Well this might be why you’re a fool with a BMI of 54. There is a huge distinction that exists in the world of exercise and that is the distinction between a Sports Club and a Gym. To begin, Sports Clubs are where your parents are members. They cost $YourFirstBorn a year and you can’t afford it. You will most likely end up at a Gym until you turn 40 or marry a wealthy Sugar Daddy (my personal life goal) Sports Clubs are where the elite suburban bourgeois shed their pounds in order to fit into their three-piece suits and cocktail dresses.
Now, I don’t know you. But if you are reading a blog, chances are that your income and standard of living just don’t make you Sports Club material.
Let me help you differentiate with a few obvious examples:
Sports Clubs have names like “Sport & Health” or “LiveWell Health Club”. Gyms dumb it down for the lower classes and keep it at one-word names such as “Results” and “Crunch” or with an exclamation point such as “Tough and Lean!”
Sports Clubs resemble your dentist office while your Gym is a former hollowed-out warehouse.
The guy at the front desk of a Sports Club is a polo-shirt clad fellow named Trevor. Conversely, Krystal checks you in at the Gym while talking on her Boost Mobile phone.
Sports Clubs have a Day Spa named Serenity or Solace, and your Gym is next to SolarXXX tanning salon.
Sports Club parking lots are filled with Volvos and Lexus SUVs. Gyms have 1998 Honda Civic hatchbacks and Mazda Pick-ups with bumper stickers.
You MUST know this distinction. Otherwise, that blonde yuppie giving you a tour of the Sports Club will send you back to the Taco Bell where you came from.
THE KILL
Once you choose your place to exercise, you now have to get dressed. (Lord willing) Imagine my surprise when I showed up at my new Gym in my old First Baptist Church 2002 Choir Tour T-shirt and the shorts I slept in last night, only to be met with stares of “OMG. Did she just get hit by the bus that she had to take to get here?” Little did I know that unless your muscles are bursting from your UnderArmor skintight top (boy) or your lovely lady hump is painted in black spandex with a teal Nike sports bra (girl or gay), you are woefully under-dressed. Workout attire is a fashion statement in itself and let me tell you, these girls treat their treadmill like their own Victoria Secret fashion show. Congratulations girls, you haven’t been pregnant yet. Thank you for showing me.
Now that you have squeezed your muffin top into a hot pink and black Adidas running outfit, what do you do now? You have two options.
First, you could get on a machine. If you are painfully awkward like myself, this is your best option because it assures that you don’t have to speak to anyone for at least a half-hour. Reading material may present a problem, but do not be alarmed. It took me a while to figure out that NOBODY judges you if you pull out an US Weekly. If someone is reading The Economist or Wine Spectator on a treadmill, that is their problem. They can answer to Satan at hell’s door for being such a douche. I can read about the currency crisis in Zimbabwe some other time. Now is the time to find out how Brangelina is handing the midnight text messages from a pregnant Jennifer Aniston.
Your second option is taking a group exercise class. For the love, please take this advice: DO NOT TAKE YOGA. It is a waste of your time as your entire workout is ruined by a) attempting to stay awake in a dark room with Enya music playing, or b) clenching your butt cheeks together trying desperately not to break wind in the face of the Anthropology professor next to you.
You could take an aerobics class. (Please Note: If you are male, do not do this. Go grunt away at the weights with the rest of the ‘roid ragers.) For females, this is an acceptable option and you can be assured of maximum confidence building as you surrounded by suburban moms with 1994 hairstyles and T-shirts down to their knees. With company such as this, you are Homecoming Queen.
However, do not be shocked if the aerobics instructor only speaks to you in the lyrics of the songs playing. That is how they connect with and encourage you, while you desperately try to dance like Beyonce.
“Really,Trisha? You REALLY think I am bringing sexy back? Why thank you! I thought this sweat soaked shirt and my dry heaving in the corner was not sexy at all!”
“Holly, how kind of you to say! When I tripped earlier and fell, I didn’t realize that it was G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S.”
With all these mind games, I sometimes just want to straight up leave the gym-sports-club-whatever and sit in front of my TV and watch E!News with a jar of peanut butter.
But who am I kidding? Once my Old Navy jeans are the only ones that fit anymore, I’ll be begging for them to take me back.
Love Always,
Abby
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