Get motivated. Eat right. Lose weight- gain confidence!
Last week I decided to get fit.
Get motivated. Eat right. Lose weight- gain confidence!
It’s been ten days and let me tell you:
It’s really fucking tiring.
Day One:
Zumba.
Thisis the art of dancing for exercise. I’ve seen me dance. It ain’tpretty. My shirt keeps coming up and my gut pops out. It was like aconstant reminder of why I had to be there.
The VeryEnthusiastic Zumba Instructor (stands in the middle of the room and westand facing her. She dances. We dance. The Very Enthusiastic ZumbaInstructor cheers in another language! We mumble something in a Spanishaccent. There’s no clock in the room. I stop several times to use thebubbler outside the room. There is a clock near the bubbler. It ticksvery slowly.
The girl next to me at Zumba is a free spirit. Herunkempt Rapunzel-length hair is also doing Zumba. On my shoulder. Idream of being in a room where the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor istired, everyone is bald and I’m wearing a watch.
And thenthere’s Sarah. This bitch is the epitome of keen. And boy oh boy has shedone this before. She stands RIGHT AT THE FRONT. She is practicallystraddling the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor. And she knows all themoves. She demonstrates this by doing them a fraction of a secondbefore the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor. At least the rest of uswere keeping in time. And if she knows all the fucking moves she shouldget to the back. Or do it at home.
Urgh.
Then Keen Sarahstarts getting call-outs from the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor.“Yeah Sarah! Pump it! Yeah!” And when she gets the call-outs she goesfuckin nuts. Waving. Flailing. The whole kit and caboodle. It was adisplay to say the least.
I could tell from looking at her mouseyponytail that she’s one of those beige people who has no personality(or shame) and has to make things up to seem like she does. You know?Like I bet she’s like, “Yeah it’s spelt Sarah. Like the normal way withan H. But you say it Sara.”
Oh yeah, like that makes you fucking interesting.
God I hate Keen Sara(h).
Iconsider punching her in the back of the head. I would be escorted out.I would be banned from the gym for life. I would be a disgrace. I wouldhave to attend anger management classes. They might serve littlesandwiches there.
Come to think of it- Sounds fucking brilliant.
Days Two, Three and Four:
Rest.Focus on hating Keen Sarah and giving self a confidence boost byday-dreaming about things that she probably can’t do. Like tell a decentjoke. Or unpack the dishwasher in the minute it takes for the leftoversto heat up in the microwave for lunch.
Sarah can’t. Sara can’t.
It feels good.
Day Five:
Mum, Dad, J-Bo and Alex embark on the Gerringong to Kiama walk.
“Sian, are you coming?”
Sian: “Fuck that.”
Iroll around my friend’s lounge room on her Dad’s fitness ball. She getshold of my legs and I roll off the side and hurt myself. It was afabulous display of my core strength.
Day Six:
Rest.
Recovering from FBI (Fit Ball Injury).
Day Seven:
Irun around the block to see how long it will take. I am so puffed I canhardly breathe and purposely time it so that I have to stop at a redlight. I feel good about myself. Real clever and cunning. I certainlywouldn’t want to cross the road in an unsafe manner. I might get hit by apassing motorist and lose the use of my legs. I might never be able towalk or run again. J-Bo would have to push me around in my wheelchair.There could be a drink holder in the arm of my wheelchair. I could keepmy beer there.
Come to think of it- Sounds fucking brilliant.
I get home from my run. I am dying. Gagging. Gasping. I feel sick. It must have been at least forty minutes. I look at my watch.
It was eleven minutes.
I ran for eleven fucking minutes (including the red light). Starting to understand why there’s no clock at Zumba.
I do twenty sit-ups. It seems to take several hours.
Day Eight:
J-Boand I go running (walking) around Moore Park. My legs hurt. My stomachis ripped to shreds from all the sitting up. I whinge. A lot.
J-Bo says, “Geez,” at me and sighs.
I know she really wants to say, “What the fuck is your problem?”
Moving. Moving is the fuck my problem.
Day Nine:
More running and walking in the park. More painful sit-ups. I never want to sit-up again. I wish I’d never learnt to.
I kneel down at work for something. I can’t get back up for several minutes.
We have fish and salad for dinner. I’m so hungry I can’t sleep.
I get a text from J-Bo who is one room away.
It says: “I’m so fucking hungry.”
Tell me about it.
Day Ten:
Ican’t get out of bed. I have had no sleep. Every time I rolled over inmy sleep I woke up from pain. I dreamt McDreamy put me on a morphinedrip. He didn’t.
I hate living up a ladder. I’ll be stuck uphere for life. J-Bo will have to bring KFC to my bed. And cheap pizza onTuesdays. And some garlic bread. She’ll get sick of bringing me drinksand eventually get me one of those beer dispensing helmets to wear inbed. I could drink anything I wanted through the straws on my new hat.I’d call it my “straw hat”. I’d love my own pun. Eventually I’d belifted out the roof on a crane. I’d be on the news. I may meet Oprah.She’d probably pay for lunch.
Come to think of it- Sounds fucking brilliant.
Day Eleven Reflection:
Nothing’schanged. I’m the same fat fuck I ever was. J-Bo is probably so repulsedby me she’ll never want to go out with me in public again. She’llprobably just make me stay home and cook the dinner. It could belasagne. But with schnitzel instead of pasta.
I look in the mirror.
At least I can say I have a nice personality.
Sarah can’t.