New Project

I sat in my truck, overcome with dread.
I did not want to go in.
My appointment was for 8:30 pm and it was past that by 2 minutes.

The parking lot was packed.
Which meant it was going to be screamin busy inside.
Probably lots of men in there. Men who would take a quick glance, and then turn away.

I felt so vulnerable.
Exposed.
Naked.

When was the last time I’d worn shorts?
40 pounds ago, that’s when.

Why did I let her talk me into this?
Because it was high time. That’s why.
I’d hit rock bottom and clearly needed a push to get me moving again.

The photos of me and Clint at his grad were disgusting.
No way I could attend his dinner and dance without at least trying to shave a millimetre of fat of my face and stomach.
Doing the math, I figured I'd have 15 days to make a dent.

Of course, the timing of her phone call was perfect.
“Jane? Can I stop by? Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… I’ve been cleaning out my closet and I have a box of clothes that don’t fit me anymore.”
I gasp for air as she continued. “They’ll probably be too small for you right now, but they’ll some in handy if you lose weight and don’t want to buy a wardrobe in that size.”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
“And… I really want you to lose weight with me. Our friendship started when we were both fat. And now that I’m losing weight, it might get .. you know… weird or something. I want us both to be thinner this summer.”

So, with her words ringing in my ear, I enter Skinny Planet so that a cute bouncy young “fitness advisor” can determine my body fat percentage, my hydration levels, my fat mass ratio, and all my measurements.
She did this all with a perky bright chipper voice in the very non-private centre of the cardio area where at least 25 men were working out.
It felt like that time that I was trying to give birth to Clint in a hospital room with the window cleaner guys looking straight in at me with my feet in stirrups.

She had me lift my hands while she measured my neck, shoulders, bust, waist… all the way down.
I noted with some interest that my right thigh circumference is 5 and a half inches bigger than my waist was when I got married. Even as I type this I keep looking at my thigh and thinking, “My waist was smaller than this leg. Frig. What happened?”

The humiliation ended after a mere 34 minutes. With an incredible amount of diplomacy, she commented that my numbers were a bit high, and she’d recommend I start exercising.

Oh.
OK.
We needed to do all those measurements to figure that out?

So. She gave me a goal. And next week we’ll come up with a plan.
She wants me to meet with Matt who’ll devise a personalized work out routine for me.
You know, to sculpt those areas that really should be just hacked off with a chainsaw.

I wish I’d gone to some woman-only type gym.
But none of them stay open late.
This one is open 24 hours. So instead of late night blogging, I can, like, pump iron. In shorts.

I’m gonna havta shave my legs more often.
I can foresee this new project being a whole lotta work.
Sigh.