Sucker

Last Monday, I did what I had promised myself I would never again do.

I joined a gym.

Maybe I was having a fat day, and, in a panicky moment, I bit the bullet and did the only thing I could think of to do to get in shape. Maybe it was the still-new presence of The Boy, who works out religiously and, incomprehensibly and irritatingly, loves it. Maybe it was the realization that after losing a lot of weight last spring, I was still soft and "cushy" and that the walking in the evenings wasn't changing anything. Then again, maybe it was the unlimited tanning bed use, although that's unlikely as I had never before, in my life, used a tanning bed.

I have my theory, and it's none of the above. I knew I was a goner when I could do my jogging on the treadmill... in front of Oprah. Yeah, baby. That sealed the deal. I mean, my two afternoon activities, Oprah and jogging, all combined into one. Perfect.

I'm having dreams that I'm Chandler in Friends, and I want to quit the gym, but can't for whatever reason.

So far, things are okay. I've gone three times, and I would've gone more, had I not made a trip down to Thomasville for my grandmother's funeral at the end of last week. I'm treadmilling, I'm weight-lifting, and I'm doing some other cardio thing that near about kills me after only 5 minutes. Oh, but I stick with it for 15.

Better keep a sharp eye out next time you know I'm in your town. I'll be the one who looks like a 5'5" Charlize Theron, all buff and cut and toned, walking down the street to meet up with you. You think I'm kidding...

(ha!)