Sally in the Zen

Confessions of a Befuddled Zen Buddhist

Took Myself to the Gym

So I finally did it. 

I finally took myself to the gym this week.

Twice.

Considering the fact that it has been three months since I’ve gone, that’s not too bad. 

Except for the part where I can’t lift my arms.

Let me start from the beginning.

Faithful readers will know that I have two gyms that I go to regularly.  Except for the two gyms and regularly, everything else is true.  Some time ago I ended my membership to my gym at work because it became too much.  Then recently I ended my membership at my favorite evening gym because I’m an old hag now and I can’t handle the intensity of the workouts. 

Because I’m an old hag now, I enrolled into a larger gym that offered more low impact workouts.  And I made up my mind to just go.

Just do it, like Nike says.

That was my motivation when I was younger.  Just do it.

My motivation now? 

I’m not getting any younger, my skin’s beginning to sag in obvious places, and my butt is hanging.

Enough said.

So I took myself to the gym this week and the first class I jumped into was Body Pump.

I love Body Pump.

It involves weight-lifting, music and plenty of squats.

Before class:  me in my sweats and a baggy gray T-shirt and high on adrenaline.  I’m psyched and thinking Yeah, finally back in the gym.  I’m gonna work out and get my baggy butt in gear.  I’m gonna be boot-ilicious real soon.  I’m gonna be cut and fine and prime.

After class:  Sweat-drenched and stinking, thinking OhmigoodnessIcantfeelmyarmsgetmeouttahereImfortyyearsoldIcantdothiscrap.

Dragged myself home and couldn’t lift my arms for the rest of the week. 

And they call this good pain?

What did I do next, with my aching arms and sore thighs?

I went back the next day and met Zumba.

To be continued.

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