Just Do It!

A trickle of sweat meanders down my nose and lingers at the tip. I twitch away the perspiration, completely amazed that I’m actually sweating on purpose. Exercise, they call it: getting in shape. The thing is, I’m too out of shape to get in shape. I’m sweating like a marathon runner after ten minutes on the treadmill, and this is only the warm-up. I should have a coronary by the time we get to the actual workout.

Todd, my trainer, comes bounding over from the front desk where he was giggling with the receptionists. He is a cross between Richard Simmons and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and it is more than a little disconcerting. He stands slightly behind me, looking over my shoulder at the readout on the treadmill console, making notes on my chart. “You’re doing fine,” Todd says, cheerily. “Just another minute and you’re done.” He makes a small whiffing sound so I turn to see what he is doing. He has his head slightly raised and he is sniffing the air like a golden retriever.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Todd tweaks his nose with two fingers and says, “I thought I smelled cigarettes.”

“Must be my thighs. They’re smoking from the friction.” The buzzer on the treadmill goes off and Todd taps the switch until the belt stops moving, and I dismount the machine. However, my body isn’t accustomed to being on still ground, so I surge forward, almost floating with Todd to the first piece of equipment, getting there much faster than I’d intended. I don’t want to seem too eager, or he’ll add more weight to my reps, or reps to my weight, or whatever it is they do to get buff. I don’t think “buff” is in my future. I’m just here so when I squat to load a DVD, I’ll be able to get up without help from my children.

“First thing we do,” says Todd, “is concentrate on the large muscle groups.”

“I’m not sure my muscles hang out in groups. They’re pretty much loners.”

“Lie on your back and put your legs up against this plate.” I take a huge swig from my water bottle, then climb onto a padded bench, bend my knees and place my feet on the metal plate, so I am basically squatting horizontally, which, believe me, is not a natural position, except, maybe, in outer space. Todd fiddles with the weight stack and releases a lever which causes the plate to push up, squishing my knees against my chest. “Now push,” he says. I push, and the upper half of my body goes up. “Uh oh,” says Todd, which is not something you want to hear your trainer say. “Too much weight. Your legs are supposed to go down. Relax.” I’m a failure already. I let my body slide back down and Todd readjusts the weight stack. “Hold onto the hand grips,” he instructs me, and this time, when I push, the plate is forced down and I can feel my thighs contracting. “Very good,” smiles Todd. “Now back up --” I let go and my knees slam into my chest – “slowly next time.” Ok. I can do this. I push down then slowly let up, then push down, then up, then I decide I’m done. “Only six more,” urges Todd. Ugh. I push and breathe (Todd has to remind me to breathe because it slipped my mind what with all this pushing), push and breathe. The last time I did this much breathing and pushing I ended up with a baby girl. I manage to get through six more, and climb off the machine, my legs barely able to support my own weight. Todd grabs my arm to steady me. Well, this is wonderful. If I keep going in this direction they’ll be carrying me out of the gym on a stretcher.

Todd makes notes on my chart, then leads me to the next machine which works the fronts of my thighs. It isn’t nearly as bad as the last exercise, and at least I’m in a more normal position. But I still seem to be forgetting to breathe. How can something be good for you if it makes you forget to breathe?

We move to a machine that tones the backs of my thighs. I lie face down on a bench where probably hundreds of other people have sweated before me, lock my ankles under the padded bar, and try to kick myself in the behind. My bottom rises as I contract the muscles and I try to reach back to make sure my tee shirt is still covering my lumpy parts. I start to lose my balance and almost tumble off the side of the bench, but catch myself in time. Apparently, exercising and being self-conscious do not go well together. I perform this motion until I can no longer curl my legs past my knees, and I’ve drooled a little puddle on the bench.

Todd happily herds me from machine to machine, obnoxiously cheerful while my tortured body twists and writhes with effort. My tee shirt is soaked with sweat and my cleavage has turned into “A River Runs Through It.” I can see the other women in the gym enjoying their workouts, ‘getting pumped’. They are all wearing tiny little midriff-bearing tops and spandex shorts. If I could get away with wearing that, I wouldn’t be here. I, too, am wearing spandex, but I guess the difference is, I wear spandex to hold everything in, while they wear spandex to show everything off. Maybe I’m too old for this. No, there are women at least in their forties here. At least I think they’re in their forties. They probably are in their sixties and just look so incredibly good they pass for their forties. I hate them. When does a person have to start exercising to look like that, when they’re two? While I was watching Road Runner, were they lifting tiny little barbells? I wonder what has to be done at this stage to keep my thighs and underarms from taking on lives of their own? Am I up to the challenge? Am I insane to even try?

Todd seats me on a machine that works the upper shoulder area. He urges me to go for it. I take a deep breath and push with all my smaller muscle group strength. The machine doesn’t budge at all, and a grotesque groan escapes my lips. “Oh no,” says Todd. (I’m going to have to talk to him about that.) “Oh my goodness! I forgot to reset the weights. I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”

I think I made in my pants. I take stock of my torso and extremities, certain I’ve ruptured everything. Remarkably, I am fine. Dazed, but fine. “I’m okay. Are we done yet?”

I finish up on that machine and there’s only one more to do before I hit the treadmill again. Positioning myself on this machine is not easy. Apparently, whoever designed this particular torture device hadn’t anticipated use by people with boobs. I try leaning mine on top of the padded support, then tucking them under it. There is absolutely no place to put them, so I just squish them against the padding and forge onward. Todd tells me to tuck my head and contract my biceps, curling my arms in toward my shoulders. I can do this, and it’s a most satisfying feeling. The urge to watch the muscles pump is irresistible, so I lift my head and give it my all and the bar slams into my forehead with a resounding clunk. Todd and I glance at each other and then I burst out laughing, from embarrassment and pain, and from the fact that all Todd can say is the ever familiar, “Oh no!” He is smiling and blinking hard, trying not to giggle. I suppose trainers are taught that laughing at their clients would be counterproductive, especially if the client has sustained a concussion. I appreciate his restraint.

And then I’m back on the treadmill, walking briskly to nowhere, pondering my activities of the last hour. The women and men surrounding me aren’t staring or ridiculing my progress, or lack thereof. They’re simply going about their own business of getting buff. And while I’m not exactly headed toward buff, I do feel an odd mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. I’ve worked my large muscle groups, small muscle groups and discovered muscle groups I didn’t even know I had, and when I step off the treadmill, I actually feel good, like I’ve accomplished something. I know I’ll be sore tomorrow but that’s okay – Todd says I have tomorrow off.

Todd pats my shoulder and says, “Good workout! I’ll see you . . .”

“Wednesday,” I say, smiling. And as I leave the gym, every muscle twitching and vibrating, I am actually looking forward to it. I feel good, dadadadadadada, like I knew that I would dadadadadadada . . .