Saturday, June 03, 2006

June Jigglies


June. Sweet June.

You're only three days old, and I'm already crushin' on you.

Ah, the warmer weather. More hours of daylight. And fewer hours of sleep -- you can't engage in any summer shenanigans if you're napping.

My mind is already on imagination overload, daydreaming about the fun I'm about to have: Drinks on patios. Barbeques. Vacation. Hot nights out on the town, eating hot dogs or something greasy early in the morning. The annual camping trip ...

And then my mind stops abruptly at the two two-piece bathing suits stuffed in my drawer. Which reminds me of my June Jigglies.

I don't think I'm fat. I've actually had someone tell me I should really put on a few more pounds. (And he needs the weight more than I do.)

What I dread is what shape my package is in after being bundled up for about six months. And what gelatinous surpises I might find.

I just know that looking at myself in the mirror in a bathing suit will wake up the inner Shallow Gal. I'll start hearing the voice -- and she'll say the one thing I loathe: "Girl, you need to get to a gym. Like, YESTERDAY."

Bicep curls. Dead-leg lifts. Crunches. Squats. Tricep and calf exercises that sear with pain.

Sexy, no?

When it comes to exercise, I think there are three camps. There's the camp that says, "Suck it up and go", and they find a gym or some activity and do it. There's the other camp that doesn't see exercise as all that purposeful and says, "Sweat? Ew! Why?" and just doesn't go.

Then ... there's the camp I'm in. You join a gym, start off slowly at first. You get into a routine. You gain confidence. Then you start showing up at the gym more often. It used to be twice a week. Then it becomes three times a week. Then maybe four or five.

Before you know it, you're jauntily jogging on the treadmill, and you're like, "After I finish my 60-minute run, I think I'll hang myself from that chin-up bar upstairs and do some upside-down crunches. Maybe bench-press 250 after that. Summer, I will OWN you."

Then in a surprise attack, the Inner Slob jumps the Inner Gym Rat, covering her mouth with chloroform and putting her in a sleeper hold. The Slob then drags her into a room in the basement, locks the door, and attempts to laugh maniacally, but laughs so hard she starts coughing.

You've just fallen off the wagon.

That's what happened to me. I'd actually been going to the gym since November or December. But starting in March, and continuing in April with my cousin's wedding, and the most manic work schedule I can remember, my inner lemming took over -- seriously, she's such an unmotivated little douche -- and I stopped going to the gym and started stuffing my pie-hole with junk food.

I've now almost back to going twice a week, but not without its consequences. Due to my infrequent schedule, my trainer saw fit to open the can of whoop-ass on Tuesday and Thursday. On Wednesday, my physiotherapist took up the slack. It's the weekend and I still feel like I was shaken down and beaten for my lunch money.

My only consolation in this is that my friend Kristy -- who just recently acquired a trainer at her local gym -- and I commiserate about our aches and pains. So I know I'm not the only one trying to fight this uphill battle.

I'm not looking to drop the equivalent of a small toddler (although Shallow Gal would love nothing more). But a little more motivation and a little less jiggle wouldn't hurt.

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