But I forgot my pants...

No doubt I was very well prepared for my first appointment. I had everything I needed. I had my Nike thermal training tights. I had a pair of yoga pants over the tights. I had my very best sports bra. I had my Vibrams. I had layers and layers of shirts. I had listened to Eminem's latest anthem. I had a mouth full of gum to battle the endless amounts of snot that come with running. I had it all.

 

 Day two. Not so much. Less enthusiasm? Nah. I was made immobile by Day one's activities so no laundry was done. No prep time.

 

I was so distracted by having to wear a regular bra that I had forgotten my gum, my scarf, and my yoga pants.

 

I was going to be cold. Really extra cold. Jiggly in the wrong places. Tasting snot the whole time. How could I make it possibly make it?

 

This is gonna suck.

 

Of course, when I had mentioned forgetting my pants to the professional,  he made no offer for me to go home to get them. There was no shortening my session...

 

We walk. Just walk.

 

This time, at the turn around spot, he does it again. "Lets run."

 

For 30 seconds.

 

No problem. 30 seconds? I can do that in my sleep.

 

Some where around 22 seconds I found myself running faster to get to 30 seconds quicker. Like 30 seconds was an invisible line on our path.

 

I know, I know... The brain does funny things at moments of desperation.

 

That continued for the whoooole way back. 30 second intervals.  

 

I was dying. Gasping for my last breath of cold air.

 

I knew it was the end when we got to the end.

 

Saying my good-bye's. Mentally distributing my personal belongings.

 

I was so happy we were done. My hour was up. I could go home and drink coffee.

 

But as usual, the time keeper had more time. And a special addition to our work out.

 

He brought out a ball. A heavy ball.

 

It read "10 lbs."

 

If I had any doubt of the professional's integrity, I would have thought that he rubbed off a "0" after the "10".

 

But I do not. So, for now, we'll say it was a 10 lb ball.

 

Pfff.....

 

Enter arm breaking chest popping moves.

 

First over my head, as if I were reaching over to scratch my back with both hands.

 

Then, this ridiculous Michael Jordan move. Over and over again.

 

Something like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was making that face, too.

 

Alas, I survived. I made it through. No pants. No gum.

 

In retrospect, I realize that I had gotten so worked up, and put so much usable energy into the fact that I didn't have what I needed to workout. Kinda like my cousin, the self-proclaimed writer of the family. She has four freshly sharpened pencils, a style book, a source book, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a new desk, new chair, a cup of coffee, and writers block.  

 

Once I realized I was channeling my energy in the wrong task and redirected my efforts, I quickly became refocused and re energized.

 

I survived.

 

Minimum whining.

 

Note to self: careful where you put your energy.

 

There is one thing that I NEED to address. There were calls, texts, and emails regarding posting my weight...even sharing it on facebook.

 

I must confess, the most disturbing and painful part of all of that is that approximately 287 people believe that I am a direct descendant of a gorilla.

 

That I have some terrible deformity.

 

I admit it, I can see the resemblance. Those two feet are made for swinging.

 

 

 

 

I had just taken off my vibrams. I was balancing on the scale. I was leaning forward.

 

The deck was stacked against me.

 

I'm here to offer my feet an exoneration: