Can I tell you a secret, Internets? I really like working out. *waits for you to collect yourself after dropping that truth bomb*
Okay, so that’s not entirely true. The actual working out part I’m not so much a fan of. But the after? Oh y’all, the after is the best.
Two weeks ago I joined a gym. I haven’t worked out in a proper gym setting in half a decade. But I marched up the stairs at LA Fitness, determined to look like I knew what I was doing, and jumped on the first thing that looked like an elliptical. Y’all. Y’ALL. It was not an elliptical. It was a Precor machine. The bottom part moves like an elliptical, but on an incline. Thirty seconds into I realized I’d made a terrible mistake, but at this point there’s no turning back. Part of the reason I need a gym membership and can’t just workout by myself at home is there is no one to shame me into continuing when I get tired. Sure, the stupidly attractive dude on the treadmill probably isn’t paying attention to me. And okay sure the tiny college co-ed with her tiny thighs that don’t touch probably isn’t going to judge me if I stop and find a proper elliptical machine, but you try telling that to my brain.
So, I kept going. Twenty minutes, I told myself. You can do twenty minutes. Twenty minutes is just fine.
A minute and a half into it: Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes is a perfectly acceptable amount of time to work out for the first time in forever. Fifteen minutes. You probably won’t die. You can do fifteen minutes.
Five minutes in: Oh god, you are going to die. You are actually going to die at the gym. The tiny girl with her tiny thighs that don’t touch is so totally going to judge you. Do you think her thighs get lonely with all that space in between them? Oh god, you’re going to throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Oh jesus, he’s pretty. Why is everyone here so pretty?
Spoiler alert: I made it to 15 minutes without throwing up or dying. I also managed to make it down the stairs without my legs giving out. Whose bright idea was it to put the cardio equipment UP A FLIGHT OF STAIRS?
And then I sat in my car looking like this:
The most attractive photo of me ever: let’s put it on the internet!
and trying to get my heart to return to normal. Eventually I made it home during which time my body got real confused. What is this…happy feeling? Am I saying that right? Happy?
BEST. MOOD. EVER. And the only one around to appreciate it was the cat.
Is this how you people feel all the time? Like, you look at that pile of dirty clothes that’s three weeks old and starting to move on its own and it doesn’t make you want to jump out a window, you’re just all, “IT’S FINE.” You see all the dishes in the sink and the empty cat food cans and you’re all, “NO BIG DEAL. HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY.” Still broke, still single, still trying to piece my life together at 31, but IT’S FINE. I FEEL HAPPY.
It’s a new emotion for me, is what I’m saying.
In the meantime, I’ll be buying bulk of this magic tape that makes my knees feel like they’re 16 again and chasing down this happy feeling like a fat kid chases cake.