Somewhere the god of exercise smirks at me.
While others are destined to svelte greatness, I am convinced that my lot in life lies somewhere between Rubenesque and the Ghostbusters Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
I wish I meant that in a good way, but sadly, like all euphemisms, this one merely covers up the sad, hideous fact that weight creeps up on you like birthdays.
Now, it’s not that I haven’t tried to get in better shape. Some of you may remember my foray into the Zumba realm. (For me, Zumba is hidden somewhere in Dante’s concentric circles of hell.)
After the Zumba debacle, I talked my friend Becky into joining a gym located just minutes from our homes. There we discovered the joys of kickboxing. (Who knew hitting things could be so much fun?) Living only five minutes away, I became a regular.
I was thrilled when the gym announced it was adding an extra yoga class. All that pretzel-like bending helped to offset the jabs, crosses, and uppercuts. Still, all the Zen stuff did little to calm me when I received a mass email that my new-found gym was closing because of the “downturn in the economy.”
Once again, I was left scrambling to find another exercise option. It was enough to make me run speedy quick to my Emergency Chocolate Drawer, which of course completely erased all the jab-jab-jab cross-cross-cross hook-hook-hook that I had endured the past few months. Those of you living in large urban areas with a gym on every corner and a Starbucks on every block probably don’t understand my angst in this entire get-in-shape-no-gym dilemma.
Becky and I still haven't found another gym to call home. They are either too far away or don’t have the type of classes we like at the times we need. Some of the former instructors did start offering exercise classes just down the street at a nearby junior high school. I started attending until a more long-term solution could be found.
A few weeks later, I received an email from one of the instructors saying she was leaving in a few weeks because she plans to move to California.
Jeez Louise, at the rate I’m going even the Ghostbusters Marshmallow Man is starting to look better than I do.
I was discussing with some co-workers my dilemma about trying to find some new exercise options. One of them started to tell me about her exercise class, but thought better of it.
“I don’t want you jinxing my class,” she said.
Later that afternoon, I found a kickboxing class located close to work.
“What brings you here?” the receptionist asked.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her about my exercise jinx.
Instead, I just muttered something about the Marshmallow Man, grabbed my boxing gloves and headed for the gym classroom.