I fell off the fit wagon.
And back onto the fat one.
Which, frankly, is much better. Instead of treadmills and weight benches, it's filled with pizza, second helpings and rivers of salad dressing. And it even makes regular stops at the ice cream stand!
But despite my unfortunate willingness to welcome desserts back into my life, being fat is so much EASIER. Fitness takes work. Hours and hours of sweat-filled work that, for me, amounted to very little other than a temporary boost in energy.
The worst part is that I was starting to notice a difference. My mood improved even though I was still a walking zombie. Knowing that it took 30 minutes on the elliptical to burn 200 calories made me far less likely to ignore the healthy dinner I had packed for work and run to the nearest Chinese buffet for a mound of takeout. Even though I stock up on veggies, they're still in very close proximity to the chicken pieces encased in fried batter and dunked in savory sodium.
For the first two weeks of the monthlong membership I purchased, I went way more than I had ever anticipated. When Jerry got home from work in the afternoon, we ate lunch as a family, then we took turns watching Allison while the other worked it off.
At first it was addicting. As the elliptical got easier, I cranked up the settings and pushed my legs, lungs and sweat glands even harder. On good days, one of the TVs was set to some ridiculous afternoon soap opera that I quickly became addicted to even though I was forced to read what they were saying in a subtitled scroll at the bottom of the screen thanks to the metal blaring through the gym.
Sometimes my machine would beep, indicating that I'd finished my workout, without warning. Instead of desperately counting down the final minutes in heaving exasperation, I'd be hanging onto every typed word, wondering if What's-his-douche's girlfriend would end up having Buffy McLoser's wife's in-vitro baby.
And, my god, I'd be lying if I said that it didn't encourage me to keep pedaling for a few extra minutes just so I could make it to the end of the show under the guise of working out. You know, instead of looking like an idiot just standing in the middle of the gym floor watching to see what comes next in a story so ridiculously out-of-touch from real life that it's like TV crack.
But reality eventually set in.
My legs started aching. I got weird pains on the balls of my feet. I hated even the short drive. I got bored pedaling to nowhere. The skinny tattoo-covered loudmouth who always screamed about his mixed martial arts fighting prowess while we shared the gym made me want to shove a barbell down his throat. And, worst of all, the TV closest to the ellipticals was suddenly and consistently tuned to BASKETBALL.
More like basketboring. My idea of March Madness is realizing that people actually get excited about crap like that. Meanwhile, What's-his-douche's girlfriend could've left him for Buffy McLoser AND I WOULDN'T EVEN KNOW ABOUT IT!
Then my blissful regular real-people schedule week at work came and went without a single workout. And the week after that was sporadic at best. And before I knew it, I was facing the possibility of shelling out another 50 bucks for being forced to watch basketboring while listening to tattoo face spew out new and exciting ways to tell the room how EFFING AWESOME he is.
The day my membership expired, Jerry came home from the gym saying that the owner had asked about me.
"Tell him that when he offers child care, adds an anti-loser clause and mandates soap operas, I'll consider paying his exorbitant prices."
Until then, I'm going to invest the $50 I would've spent for April and get a new pair of running shoes.
Maybe I'll catch back up to the fit wagon eventually.