So last week, I was really on a roll. I went to the gym on Monday night and Wednesday night. Yes, going to the gym two times in one week is classified as "on a roll" to me. So, why, pray tell, am I not on a roll this week? Allow me to elaborate...
Last Wednesday, I was on the curl machine, lifting my measly humiliating respectable 20 pounds. (Hey, don't judge, I'm just getting back into the workout routine!). So here I am, midlift, and one of the expensive, fancy-schmancy athletic trainers strolls up to me and says, (I kid not) "Wow, your arms are really muscular!" Umm, are you talking to me? Miss "Scrawny-Skinny-Still Get Teased For My Bony Arms" me? YES.
So I increduously look at Mr. Athletic Trainer Man With the Bowl Haircut (yes, bowl haircut a la 1993) and say, "Uh, thanks?" He goes on to ask me about my exercise routine (err, routine?) and I tell him I'm just getting back on the horse and doing a little eliptical here, a little lifting there. Then he goes on to ask me if I've ever tried kickboxing. I tell him yes, I have, that I periodically drop into the group classes at the gym, but that it's not good for my running-worn knees and hips. He kind of glosses over that and tells me that he's a personal kickboxing instructor, all special like. Then he asks me if I would like to schedule a complimentary, one-on-one kickboxing session with him. What's a girl to do?
The cowardly polite thing, apparently. So I'm all, suuuuuurrrreee, sign me up, Mr. Athletic Trainer Man With the Bowl Haircut and proceed to give him my cell phone number and tell him, yes, 8:00 on Monday is fabulous! God, I'm a moron. I spent my whole weekend dreading my one-on-one kickboxing session and decided on Monday afternoon that I'm going to send an e-mail to Mr. ATMWBH and tell him that due to my terribly run-down knees and hips, I'm going to stick to low-impact exercises. Nevermind that I sent this e-mail from my work e-mail account because I was too chicken to call the man directly. Nevermind that Mr. ATMWBH decides to call me at work not once, but !twice!, to speak to me. Good lord, what was I thinking when I left my signature (including my direct line) on that e-mail?
So what's a mature, responsible girl to do? Recognize that unfamiliar phone number as Mr. ATMWBH and ignore the calls, of course. As in WALK AWAY FROM YOUR DESK WHEN YOU SEE THE NUMBER POP UP ON YOUR CALLER ID ignore. God, my co-workers must love me. I totally couldn't even bear to listen to his messages so I just erased them. Yes, I'm 26, why do you ask? Anyway...now I'm in a quandry. I can't go to the gym anymore in fear of Mr. ATMWBH seeing me and asking me, "what the hell is your deal, girl?" But my ass has got to work out. And what does Jonathan think of this situation? Oh, he thinks it's fucking hilarious. Yeah, he'll think it's real hilarious when my ass melts into my thighs, right? (Okay, so it might already do that, but that's besides the point).
