Finding my muscles again–those buried alive by sub-cutaneous flesh made uber-fleshy from inactivity and/or chardonnay and crab cakes–has been tough but satisfying.
You will remember that my self-inflicted regimen of torture began on the day I discovered I could not execute one lousy push-up. (To be honest, the seed was also planted when I tried on bathing suits last May in a Tommy Bahama store.) I can do 9 push-ups now.
Yesterday, I learned that I cannot do one stinky sit-up. The whole rediscovery of muscles who now mutter every day in an achy grievance like lazy teenagers has been humbling, especially for a girl like me who looks pretty good in my clothes.
The gym is small, so I cannot hide.
My ebullient and bubbly personality magnetizes a varied combination of people: old men (over 78 years old…the 80-year-olds will not leave me alone), young men who for some reason like my energy and offer to be my workout partner , and Indian women, whose personalities gel perfectly with mine (we like to laugh and we wear skin-tight workout clothes that make us look tight and shrink-wrapped when in reality, should a seam explode, lots of wiggly stuff would emerge with a big-time g-force.)
Yesterday, one of the young men–I believe Rudy is his name–commended my focus, my determination, my reps ( I’d done 20 reps without stopping to grunt or scream). My focus? I was sitting, legs spread apart, on a machine that works the pectoral muscles.
I laughed. I smiled. Ha, Ha, I thought. I need to come here more often where someone will notice my pecs. And then he said “it.”
Cheri, you are what we call a “skinny fat girl.”
My pecs dropped farther down than they already are. My big smile and pearly teeth kept their focus but inside, I knew he had stated the truth with a capital F.
Thanks, Rudy. I’ll file that comment in my motivation folder.
And so it goes.