Just about every obstacle that could have been thrown at me this week was thrown at me this week in multiple attempts to derail my working out. It’s as if everything from the synapses in my brain to Mother Nature were conspiring against me to keep me sedentary.
Alas, I have prevailed! (Well, two-thirds prevailed. I fully expect a freakishly large kitchen sink to be lobbed at me out of nowhere as I’m walking to the gym tomorrow in an effort to foil my third workout.) To catch up, take a gander and Sabotage! Bribery! Precipitation!, then head on back and I’ll tell you about The Headache and then about Happy Hour.
No. Really. I’ll wait. Go read my last entry.
The Headache
The headache goes something like this: I get them. Killer ones. When the weather changes. I’m not even 40 and I can tell you that it’s gonna rain sometime in the next 12 hours based on the sickening pressure building up in my head. My 80s are gonna be really, really relaxing, I can tell.
Imagine the worst hangover you’ve ever had. Then multiply that by 10. Then add a migraine to it. (If you don’t know what a migraine feels like, take the worst headache you’ve ever had and amplify it by about a billion.) So yeah, worst hangover plus migraine, then back a dump truck on to your head. And drive a spike through your skull. That’s kinda what it feels like. Suffice it to say, very little happens when I get one of these. (Others would also say, “you really should see someone about that…”)
That was all of Wednesday and part of Thursday. (The odd thing is, they turn off like a lightswitch and then I’m just fine.)
Happy Hour
A friend of mine, who also works out at Vida (that’s my gym), suggested going out to dinner after working out one night this week. I hadn’t had a chance to catch up with him in awhile, so I jumped at the opportunity. But there’s just one hitch: he works out at Happy Hour. (Review: Happy Hour is the time period at gyms, mostly between the hours of 5 and 8, when the gym is busiest. And in a predominantly gay gym, when the hottest, buffest guys are working out. Or in most cases, standing around talking to each other.)
Happy Hour is intimidating. I feel awkward enough using the equipment. Having to ask someone to move their incredibly important conversation about this weekend’s beach party just makes me want to run screaming out of the gym. (Although, sometimes you can get good costume ideas for said beach party eavesdropping on the conversation. Just a thought.)
So, as I’m finding my comfort zone in the gym, gaining my confidence about hoisting these heavy weights around, and struggling to feel like nobody is pointing and laughing, working out at Happy Hour isn’t high on my priority list. Eventually I’ll tackle it, but I hadn’t thought it would happen on…
…Thursday.
And it wasn’t bad. At all. There was a small crowd of intimidating guys (buff, loud, comfortable in the gym), but of the 5 of them that were there, it looked like only two were working out. The others appeared to just be keeping them company. So weird. How do guys get built that way?!?? I steered clear.
And I survived. And I got a good workout in. And I’m beginning to see familiar faces. I don’t actually know any of them, but with familiarity comes comfort. And with comfort comes confidence. And with confidence comes results. I need to start giving this cast of characters names. (When I first moved to DC, the regulars that I would see out-and-about all had names: Clark Kent, No Belt Guy, Turtleneck Guy, Martha Dumptruck…)
Things are looking good here at the end of week two. I’ll do a weigh-in tomorrow, but honestly I don’t expect much change. Right now, it’s about finding my comfort zone. Then I can get on with knocking off the pounds.
I’m feeling good!