I have this friend.
And she is lovely. She really is.
Very fit, exercise-y, trim. That kind of crap.
Also, very motivational.
Offering to train me, help me eat right, be my health “sponsor.”
Which is awesome.
But really, she’s like the blondie, feathered-hair cheerleader sister you have, where never in six million years will you perform at the awesome over-achiever level she deems acceptable.
Also, she LOVES to work out.
Like gets excited about it.
So right there we have nothing in common.
But I want to give myself to her just the same.
Hand my body over and say, “Go to town. Do what you need to do. I don’t need my legs to work today.”
Just to put it in context, this is the email she sent me yesterday:
(Paraphrased): Come to the gym with me! I want to do Power Pump first, then Cardio KickBox, then Spin class! Afterwards, let’s do six weeks of weight training and a yoga cool down!”
Whereas in response, I’m thinking (paraphrased): FUCK NO. But is there a smoothie bar?
See, I do like to not be enormous. I do prefer to not be a cotton ball of little to no muscle. It’s just that it seems so complicated. You know, getting in the car. Driving to a gym. Opening a locker. Getting on a treadmill.
I don’t think I’m genetically programmed to break a sweat. I know there’s a good reason for it. Probably something evolutionary, like I hale from a long line of Norwegian acid sweaters.
Still and yet. I promised to join my lithe, supple-muscled freak friend for a workout next week after the kids go back to school. I’m going to her gym for a week, during which time she hopes to transform me into someone who isn’t a human marshmallow.
Also! And funnily! She thinks maybe I might learn to like breaking a sweat!
Poor thing. She’s gonna be real sorry when all my skin burns off because of that Norwegian acid sweat thing.
I’m just saying: You do NOT mess with evolution.
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