The Workout Nazi

Believing that exercise is a natural cure-all for many things that ail us, I am trying to get back into the habit of going to the gym. Until I got pregnant with Adam, I went to the gym four to five times a week, but by the time I was about five months pregnant, my attendence dwindled, and since then, I've had one excuse after another to not go. Let's face it. There's always something that needs to be done around here, and going to the gym just means that some things won't get done, or that I will have less time to get the same amount of work done, meaning more stress. And I don't look for additional stress. But I'd really like to lose some weight and working out is something that I enjoy, plus it makes me a happier person. So, back to the gym I have went. I went twice the first week, twice the second week and am shooting for 3-4 times this week.

I was under the impression that Monday is a fairly easy day at the gym. In the past, it's been a kickboxing type of class, one that was hard, but not too hard. I'd almost break a sweat during the class. I felt up to it, barely. So I get dressed, get the kids out the door, get the boys ready, grab a water bottle and towel and head out... late. I'm usually late. It's a simple fact of life for me. I knew I'd be about twenty minutes late for my class and I was starting the think maybe I shouldn't do this today, that maybe I should head home and start on my mountain of laundry or pay some invoices for my business. Maybe I could work in some squats on my own, or power lunge up and down the stairs as I carry baskets of laundry to and from the laundry room, but I decided to press forward, thinking that forty minutes of a workout is better than nothing.

I pull into the parking lot and there are absolutely no spots. None. Not even on the street. Again, I think maybe today is not meant to happen. Home is sounding pretty good. But then, a sign from heaven... a lady parked right by the door pulled out, leaving me a preemo spot. Surely I should be here, right? I pulled in, got the boys out of their car seats, deposited them in child care and scurried down the stairs to my class.

I knew within minutes I was in some serious trouble. First of all, the room was packed (hence the packed parking lot). Second, the instructor, who was pregnant, had to have someone else show us some of the moves because they were so intense. We did "spider push ups" and "shoelace squats". We used free weights and a wall to work out our calves. We did jumping jacks and then hit the ground. We did knee repeaters til I thought I was going to die and crunches, more crunches and still more crunches. All the time, our peppy pregnant instructor encouraged us to do "just ten more", ensuring us that we were "almost there". It was intense and my body was screaming. Tomorrow, I will be lucky to walk. I later found out that the class is called "Booty Camp". Not boot camp. Booty Camp. Cute, huh? Don't be deceived. Seriously, you'd think as many friends as I have in there, one of them would have warned me that the Monday class is not what it used to be.

Will I go to this class again? Probably. There's something about working out. It's addictive. It's healthy. It's good pain. It's a major stress reducer. It makes me feel better about myself. It's one of the few things I do just for me. Also, it makes me a better mom and wife for my family. Happier. Not so grumpy. It's worth it, even if I do spend the rest of the day waddling around in pain.