Love, Jimmie

It is with regret that I announce the termination of my contract with my beloved YMCA.  When I lost my job I didn’t feel as if I could afford the membership any longer, not knowing what was in store for me down the road.  I only was allowed a 30-day window to renew without paying a joining fee and because my new job didn’t happen within that window, I missed my opportunity.  Joining fees at the Y will cost you and arm and a leg. Since I am partial to being symmetrical, I looked for other facilities. 

It has been a journey, not quite an emotional one, but a journey I have not relished.  I miss Lynnette.  I miss Jane.  I miss my little old ladies with the blue eye shadow from eyelash to brow bone.  I miss Cathy who told me she loved me every time she saw me even though she says it to everyone.  I miss the guy who hit on me all the time by asking me to meet up in the steam room.  (Okay, that was a lie.  I don’t miss him at all.) I miss my *people*. 

After a time, though, I lit upon a gym I’ve heard good things about.  Hermitage Fitness.  I tossed my hair up in pigtails, threw on some clothes and drove on over there to check it out.  My first impression was, well, not good.  It’s in kind of a ghetto shopping center, very run down.  There is a Dollar General next to it which always makes me feel a little safe, but the Family Buffet looks like a place I wouldn’t take my ex-boyfriend to and I don’t like him at all. I gave it a shot, though, and was pleased. 

I was surprised at how nice the facility was and how reasonable the rates were.  I accepted a week’s free pass and made sure I gave the gym a thorough test.  I availed myself of the locker room, showers and all.  Very nice.  I availed myself of the jogging track.  Kind of boring but handy.  I availed myself of the scale. Sniffle.  I’d really like to avail myself of this machine, mostly because I picture myself sipping on a cocktail and filing my nails while the machine does all work.  Isn’t that what those “fat shaker” machines offer? 

Anyway, finally, I availed myself of some classes.  I thought I’d see how they compare to Lynnette’s classes.  Obviously there would be no contest, but I thought I should work with what I have. 

I have more to say about the classes but first, I want to say this.  You notice how on my list of demands I make of a man before considering a date with him I never list “stomach like a brick”?  There’s a reason for that. I do find that a lovely feature, really meow-worthy, but I feel that if I demand one of those from him, I’ll have to give one back in return.  And there ain’t no way, no how I’m ever going to achieve that.  Still, one class at this new gym was of particular interest to me: the abs class.  Thirty minutes of straight ab work, which in theory sounds like a fantastic idea. 

Then I took the class. 

Aw, hell naw.  It was awful. The instructor was so friggin cheerful and never gasped for breath even one time.  His manner was mild and not at all flustered.  His skin stayed a nice flesh color and never turned tomato red.  His ab moves looked as fluid as melted butter.  As I was his polar opposite, I hated him for every minute of it.  He probably has fantastic abs.  Mine, on the other hand, hurt so badly right now that if I sneezed I would pass out. 

Lynnette, Tony, Hulk, Jane, and Dammit Todd, I suppose you’d like to know why I’m mad at you.  Because you are the ones who tell me I can do this, encourage me to do this and have results doing this.  You changed my status quo years ago (whether I adhere to it or not) and right now, while my abs are making me want to cry, I hate you for it. I just did arms yesterday so I’m pretty sure I won’t get over it any time soon. 

Love,
Jimmie, abs of cotton, arms of rubber

P.S. On my first day at the new gym, a much older man asked me if I was single.  Why do I suspect that he might invite me to the steam room soon?