Friday, February 18, 2005

In which I finally move.

I'm going to haul my flabby ass to a gym! Today! Not necessarily a great one, as I am broke. But the one nearest me is cheap, has all the equipment this novice needs (if not the super-deluxe machines of pricey clubs), and free classes and personal ass-kicking training. I enjoyed the tour I took the other day. And no, it's not Curves, which hours of research has revealed would put me in a sweaty feel-good circle with a dozen tubby grandmas who treat the gym as a social thing. There, I'd be working out on machines that you can only increase your workout on by doing more reps, not increasing resistance. Sounds hard on the elbows.

The alternative is the local rec centre, which is even cheaper and has a pool, but no personal assessment, and no asskickers personal trainers without further cost. They do offer babysitting, for when that time comes. Their basic monthly rate includes free aerobics classes, lane swimming, and weight room access. If I join both the gym and the rec centre, I'd be spending less monthly than at Curves.

To tell the truth, I'm not simply tired of being tired and flabby; I'm feeling feisty. My in-laws are lean, mean fitness machines. My mother-in-law is in better shape than I. She is very active and looks just fabulous. Same with my sister-in-law. I am the lone puffball, and sick of it. If it takes my competitive streak getting the better of me to make me move my ass, I'll take it.

The more I move my ass, the more I can explore cookbooks guiltlessly. My latest acquisition is Lovers Dining, an adorable little 1970 volume dedicated to creating succulent dishes for two. My aunt already has the book, and recommends the veal with lemon and brandy. The cover says so much:

Off to the gym I go. Soon. ::scans room for means of further procrastination::


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