Working Out: The Hilarity Continues

I’ve gone up two clothing sizes.

It’s a problem.  I despise working out.

My doctor’s office believes in torturing patients on principle, as part of careful health monitoring.  They weigh you.  Every. Single. Time.

I got sick, and had to cave in and go to the doctor.  Not breathing has a way of forcing one out of one’s anti-doctor comfort zone.  I dread the scale.  I wore flip flops I could kick off, t-shirt, and t-shirt weight sweat pant shorts.  I couldn’t decide if an underwire bra weighed more than a workout bra or vice versa.  (I’m all about losing the fashion statement when confronted with a scale.) I was tempted to remove my glasses.  I closed my eyes, and quite clearly said “don’t tell me what it says”.

Two clothing sizes?  10 pounds gained, minimum.  I do not want to know.

Is it in the office manual that a patient’s weight must be announced to the waiting room?

Great.  Now I know.  Along with the entire office.  Wait a second.  What?!  I gained…only 2 pounds?  How can that be?

We know pants never lie.  (Not one pair of pants, a closet full of pants, which qualifies as a pants chorus.)  That means…since muscle weighs more than fat…hang on…calculating….I’ve lost 2 clothing sizes worth of muscle.  I try not to figure what the two pounds gained really translate into, in terms of The Pants Law of Physics.

My brain is immediately calculating the ways in which I can lie to myself so I don’t have to consider working out, or forgo food.

My body is sighing.  It’s tired, it’s depressed, it probably needs to go (again) to the sugar-addict equivalent of the Betty Ford clinic..  And I want it to work out?  Couldn’t we listen to the brain for once?  That’s when I know for sure I’m in trouble.  My body and my brain never agree.   Never.

I found a cool workout application  for my smart phone.  I downloaded it, thinking, “Nah, it’ll never have horseback riding on there.”  I’m happy. Now I can tell myself I tried, without actually trying.

It has horseback riding.  Not the kind of riding doctors, family, and co-workers always think you’re talking about: Sofa Riding, but actual levels of riding intensity.  Crap. It has Sport Riding.

I thought I’d better practice using the thing before I got on a horse.  I drove Christmas to his morning walk, parked, and turned the app on in the car.  It would be difficult to turn it on when I hit the sidewalk.  My hands would be way too full.  What with the dog pulling, me trying to hang onto my diet coke, and get the bagel into my mouth.

(I have this theory: if you eat during a workout, your body doesn’t log the calories, because it’s too busy.)

I unload my breakfast to the roof of the car and clip the leash on the dog. Workout program is started, cell phone firmly clipped to my waist.  Okay. I’m lying.  I clip it near the general geography of where my waist used to exist.

I expected CardioTrainer would be a sort of pedometer.

I should have been so lucky.

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