So . . . it would seem that I've been away from my formerly pious devotion to daily exercise since I hurt my foot. Which was . . . February?
I've been feeling so out of shape. Maybe it's because I'm so out of shape.
Dammit. And I had worked so hard!
It's time to get back on the horse, so to speak.
A couple years ago I joined Curves. It was a good way to ease back into regular exercise after being away from it for a whole bunch of years . . . let us not speak of it . . .
But the Curves work-out just doesn't do it for me anymore. Then I had a brilliant, but short lived, kickboxing career. The one that Dr. Buttface says I am now too old for . . .
Having notched Curves and the kickboxing place on my bedpost, there are only two gyms left in town to join. The Expensive One and The Rinky Dink One.
We can't afford The Expensive One. So, guess which one hubby and I attended orientation for tonight?
The one hour orientation was delivered by a personal trainer with weird spit things happening at the corners of his mouth, making it impossible for me to look directly into his face. Also? You have to imagine his presentation with a native Floridian accent. It went a little something like this:
"Well, I don't like that machine. I don't know how it works.
"That one's broke.
"This one I'm not even going to bother showing you because it's rickety--shouldn't even be here.
"I don't like this one, the exercises it does can be done on other machines.
"We have other handles and cables for that machine--they're in the back somewhere . . . I think . . .
"That one's broke. So's that one . . . "
But what can we expect from a facility with a yearly membership of $4.97?
Being poor and flabby in a small town sucks . . .