God, please take me now

Did you know that gym memberships surge in January then die back to normal in May?  It’s true.  You get a bit panicked after the roast dinner and dessert frenzy of December 25th and before you know it you've gone and brought some lycra, the matching shoes, sweatband, towel and bag, and booked a personal trainer for some torture at the gym.  After 3 weeks, some thigh chafing, a sore butt, and 6 pounds of protein powder you realize working out at home is a much better idea, and add another machine to your growing collection.   During a particularly arduous session on said machine you realize an amazing thing.  Exercise makes you pray.  True statement.  check out this session of mine, when I get 40 minutes into a 60 minute workout and can no longer figure out why sweaty eyelids are a good thing…

“God! (I wheeze desperately) God!, show me your mercy!  Take this fat from me, take it God.  I bind this fat and send it into the sea!  Oh merciful God!  Please take this roll from my waist as I sleep tonight – I promise I’ll never eat another pie, and if I do please give me leprosy.  God lift this burden whose yolk is heavy! In Jesus name I pray.  Oh and thank you that I have legs to exercise on.  Amen”

40 minutes into a 60 minute cardio session you’re not just talking to God, you also start talking to yourself… “40 minutes down, 20 minutes to go, 40 minutes of pain, 20 minutes more, two-thirds done, one-third left, I’ve done 40, most only do 20, 40 is good, 60 is stupid.  God loves 40, 40 days and nights of rain, 40 day fasts, 40 years in the wilderness.

“God!  I know you believe in the power of 40.  You understand that 40 is all it takes to change a situation.  I feel you leading me to only do 40 minutes of cardio today and the next and probably Wednesday as well as I have a sore ankle and don’t want to miss this weeks episode of Biggest Loser.  God you are so wise and compassionate, thank you that you lead me and teach me your ways”

(43 minutes)
At this point the sweat runs into your eye and your thighs have become cellulite bricks.  Your life flashes before your eyes and there is a disconcerting amount of french-fries featured.  Co-starring is the chocolate brownie that contains exactly 200 calories a piece and had its way with you during the great sugar crash of 3.20pm

“God! Thank you for sending me a vision in my time of need.  I see clearly the decision I need to make.  I must call Mom and counsel her not to make any more brownies, there are other ways she can love me.  Also, I’m not sure if I can go on much longer, so please take care of my babies and help my husband find a new wife; preferably less attractive than me.  Amen.

(48 minutes)
Will this nightmare NEVER END!?  It’s as if time has stopped, the seconds are like minutes, all logic and reasoning has left you.  It’s hard to even conjure up the motivation picture that usually works… you, a bikini, a cruise ship, and not a roll of fat in sight.  I mean bikini’s are sooo 90’s, and too much exposure to the skin is very ageing, and who on earth would want to go on a cruise anyway – hello people – remember the Titanic?!  

“Oh God!  Take me! just take me now.  If this is life, then who needs it? I beseech you God – hear my cry! Release me from this bondage of exercise and sweat.  I know you want me to have blessing and abundance, but 1000 calories a day is not abundance, and my chafing thighs are not a blessing.  Take me to Heaven where I can have my new body- I’m sure there’s a song that talks about ‘no more dieting there’ and  I’m ready God, I’m ready!

(51 minutes)
Must keep going, can’t stop now.  Need to burn 400 calories (who could ever stop at one piece of brownie?) and get sweat marks on your t-shirt to prove you worked hard on this ridiculous machine.  Who ever invented such a thing is a sick, sick man who obviously never carried an extra pound.

“God!  Please forgive the man who made this machine, and help him see the error of his ways.  I know you love him like you love me, but it must be MUCH harder.  Soften his heart God and his belly too, so he has opportunity to experience the torture of this machine in person.  Thank you that you are righteous and just.  Oh and please block my nose today when I drive past KFC, you know I have a reaction to the smell which causes me to drive through and order stuff.  Amen.

(55 minutes)
Only 5 minutes to go…on the home stretch now… I am strong, mentally and physically strong; I am a champion; others would have stopped at 40 but not me– no way!   Nothing can stop me now.  Bikini - here I come, cruise ship – all aboard!    I always say ‘God helps those who help themselves’, so maybe you can help me stop helping myself to the brownies!   Amen.

LYCRA LEOTARD 'nuff said.

You may have convinced me that exercise is important, and its possible I could accept that carb’s are not God’s gift to dieters, and on a really good day I’ll support salad as a side dish, but there is no way ever you could make me believe that Lycra is a good idea.

You would think it would be important while exercising to cover our less flattering features, rather than enhancing them with shiny fabric in ‘look at me’ colors and styles that don’t cover your cellulite, but rather hug neatly to every dimple and bulge.  I mean call me crazy, but does anyone else find this whole ‘wear comfortable clothes for exercising’ thing disturbing?  I haven’t worn anything comfortable since I leapt off the rack into the plus-size section.

It’s like wearing black because it’s ‘slimming’.  Hullo!  There is no such thing as a slimming outfit when you weigh 200 pounds.  Forget Lycra – I am most comfortable in my bootleg sweats – and that’s what I’m wearing - as soon as I start exercising of course.

Theories on exercise are numerous and varied, and there seems to be as many professional opinions as there are infomercials for systems to tone, trim, train, tighten, taunt, tease and torture yourself.  I myself, am marching bravely towards the worlds largest collection of diet and health books (second only to my collection of recipe books), and had to build an extra garage for all the exercise equipment I bought while eating peanut butter toast and raspberry twists in front of the T.V.

Like many desperate housewives, it was common for me to hit the pavement safely smug in the knowledge that walking is the best form of exercise.  (ha!  Who ever dreamed up this one is my HERO!)   As a bonus I can deliver a self-righteous lecture to hubby and kids while I huff and puff my way through tying these flippin laces. (excuse me while I CATCH….oww chest pains…MY…..what the heck is wrong with flipflops anyway?.....BREATHE…whew…mental note to buy slip ons)  And as any fatty with a brain knows, it can all be accomplished without breaking a sweat on a convenient walk past the store with enough time on the way back to scoff an entire packet of fat free, chocolate covered, low carb, double dipped, unsalted, organic grown honey roasted peanuts.  They’re healthy after all.  The packet says so!

When the novelty of showing off my latest exercise outfit to the neighbors wore off (day 2), I would move to exercising indoors, and fortunately owned a whole library of videos, dvd’s, inspirational books, and a plethora of dusty equipment that will do just the job.  (I guess I could go buy a real clothes rack if I have to.)

As soon as I can find a patch for that oversized ball, and a leotard that will fit both butt cheeks I’ll be exercising like you wouldn’t believe.  Do I need say more?  Of course I never did it.  Who wants to bounce around their living room (okay so I generously use with poetic license the word ‘bounce’)  terrorizing small children, and worrying that Pastor So-and-So might pop by for a visit?  No thanks, not me.

So what other options are there?  TaiBo?  TaiChi?  Fat camp?  Swimming?   Bahahaha! LMAO (if only that was actually possible)  Swimming?!   That is a good one!  (loud guffaw followed by choking as overactive imagination conjures the image of me in the swimsuit I don’t own, cos girlfriend – I don’t do swimsuits!)  

I know there are whole clubs dedicated to this, the pursuit of physical health, but maybe you have forgotten the wall to wall, floor to ceiling, dimple to pimple MIRRORS in there!  Mirrors for Africa.  Mirrors that make sure every person in the building can see you from every angle. Mirrors so carefully avoided at home, in fitting rooms, on car visors, and in compacts, now mocking in their unrelenting reflection of the sum of all my sins – yes – THOSE mirrors!

The problem is, my ‘don’t-stand-if-you-can-sit-eat-often-use-treadmill-as-laundry-sorting-area’ plan is not working.  So in a moment of possible insanity, and with a very dark pair of glasses, I ventured one day through the front door of Hades, and managed to join the gym without looking anyone in the eye. 

I learnt how without muscle to give my body shape and form, I could easily end up being the lady in church with upper arms that can praise the Lord all by themselves.  I also learnt that Lycra went out with the old millennium and there’s not a shiny crop top in sight.  Gosh – and I spent a fortune on this one-piece leisure suit in ‘lipstick pink’ with sequin trim.

If it wasn’t in the Bible, I could probably talk myself, and a whole army of sweat-drenched, mirror dazed, stair climbing, cardio freaks out of the need for exercise, but He said it was a good idea, so it must be true.

I’ll never love the sweating, the outfits, or the mirrors, but I’ll take the chance to see once and for all, if my butt looks big in these pants!