Thin Mints, A Misnomer
I hate to exercise. I am gearing up for Jason's Butts n' Guts class tomorrow that seriously kicks my butt. Note that it kicks my butt but so far does nothing to shape it. Perhaps the nightly Thin Mints (the most egregious misnomer in the history of dessert), banana pudding, pina colada pound cake, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, York Peppermint Patties, or peanut M&Ms scavenged from between the couch cushions have some to do with said flabby bum.
It doesn't help that I lack coordination, balance, strength, stamina...oh yeah, and interest. Basically all the athletic prowess chromosomes skipped over me to go swimming in someone else's gene pool. Looking in a mirror as I try to master some choreography while balancing on a step is nothing less than humorous and humiliating. My lack of athleticism is a constant source of humor and frustration for my husband. He is naturally athletic so he can't comprehend why I can't hit the ball off the tee on the first try. Nevermind that I haven't golfed in seven years. And have you noticed how dang small that ball is?! He doesn't understand why I am woefully bored on the treadmill and how the Nordic Trac almost mauled me.
It seems that my sons Bird and Deal will take after their dad. Well, sort of. Bird was scolded for plopping his little bottom on first and second base tonight in T-Ball practice. He told me he was tired and taking a break because the soft cushy bases looked really comfortable. That's my boy! Let's face it, Deal is gonna be the star athlete in the family whose newspaper clippings we will paste into his scrapbook. If I were a betting woman I'd wager that Bird is going to enjoy sports but will not have the same talent as his little brother. Bird has grace while Deal has brawn. Bird will be the kicker (the most graceful position in football, I like to say) while Deal will be the gentle giant playing defensive end (like I even know what that is!). At least they see us exercising and taking time to do what's healthy so we are setting a good example. I don't dare let on that I hate every single painful, boring minute of it.
You know why I hate exercise? Because it doesn't end. Why must I work out day after day after day after day? I just want to do it, hit my goal, and stop. I'm the kind of girl who likes to cross things off her to-do list. Sometimes if I complete a task that wasn't on my list, I just write it down to feel the sense of accomplishment of crossing it off. Exercise is a task that shows up every single day, mocking me into submission. Buying cute workout wear isn't even motivation enough (other than buying tennis skirts, of which I cannot get enough!). I want exercise to be like painting a room. You toil, sweat, curse, and labor through it. At the end you have lovely Sherwood Forest green walls. And you're done.
Is there a way to make exercise fun? Is there hope for me? A magic pill? Where can I find the Kool Aid that the meatheads at the gym have obviously drunk? I refuse to let my body fall into the 40-year old sagging blubber factory that it's destined to become without Jason. I want my body to be all Jessica Biel...but I don't want to work for it.
This is the cousin to a post that originally appeared on Dirt & Noise. This is an original Deep South Moms blog post.
Ilina begrudgingly hits the gym three times a week. She dresses the part of a gym diva but in no way acts like one. You can find her blogging at Dirt & Noise , firing up the gumption to write her first book, and drumming up consulting business for iFactor, her marketing firm.