YMCA (sing it, now)....

OK, for those who have read any of my moaning-about-being-fat blogs, and my attempts-at-diet blogs, and even my love-of-food blogs...you already know that dieting just isn't working for me. Excuse me a minute while I lick the rest of the fake-but-curiously-addicting "cheese" powder off my fingers from the bag of Cheese Puffs I just finished off.

There. All better.

So, of course DH came up with a solution. EXERCISE! Yes! I would simply actually really join a gym this time (instead of visiting it, getting tired after a tour of the facility and stopping at a McDonalds on the way home). THIS year is the year. THIS year I would plunk down a joining fee. Obviously, if I would only exercise, my metabolism will shoot up, causing me to be able to consume the 3,500 calories I seem to need to survive, and still allowing me to lose weight.

It's all so clear now. I truly wondered why I ever resisted the allure of the circuit machines? The call of the treadmill? The lull of the exercise class?

Until, well, I joined.

We joined on Monday. It was Labor Day, so thankfully (oh, too bad, right), they were closing shortly after we wrote the check. That was so OK with me, although DH looked a little wistful. I assured him we would return the next day for a consultation with our "wellness coach", and get going on the new me right away.

Tuesday, the kids and I wore our shiny new shoes and running pants to the Y. We met with our wellness coach who adorably assured me I was in fact, NOT the largest woman to get on the machines (as he so adroitly changed every setting for me to be able to fit on the silly seats). I think I reminded him of his mother. I remember the days when I was cute and got help that way. Now I get help in the "please don't fall on my watch" way. But, it works, and I'll take it.

We mapped out a plan. I would do one set at each machine at the lightest weight for FIVE reps. That was it. Meanwhile, Sweet Girl was lifting and repping at light speed and well on her way to some jr. olympics prize. Rowdy ditched us early to go and run on the treadmill because...you can watch TV while you run. How cool is THAT? I got to get on the treadmill at the end. My goal was to walk 1 mile in 20 minutes. ONE MILE IN TWENTY MINUTES. That was a goal. Cute wellness coach guy seemed dubious. I was sure I could do that. After all, shopping is often a mile of walking in 20 minutes right? I do that regularly, and usually while carrying a drink and eating m and m's. No problem.

Ok, so target heart rate? The way you figure it out is to take 220 and subtract your age. You then take that number and you want to ideally work out at about 60 to 75 percent of that rate (when you are my age, anyway). I recently turned 49 (hence the weight-loss/get-in-shape plan and the "you look like my mother" help from cute wellness coach). 220 minus 49 equals 171. 60 percent of 171 is 102. 102? I am
fairly sure my pulse gets to 102 every time I stand up from the chair to go and get another Hershey Kiss. Wow. Meanwhile, Sweet Girl's target is actually my 100-percent-and-will-kill-you-number.

I decided I would aim for 75 percent of my target and really go for cardio. That magic number is 128. It happens to also be my goal weight (those who know me can now stop laughing, it's a JOKE). Anyway, all this to say, when I stepped on the treadmill, I knew what number I wanted to see.

I saw it in 10 seconds.

There is some kind of fitness mantra thingy that you aren't supposed to reach your target heart rate by simply stepping onto a machine and it's all sort of connected to how out-of-shape you really are. Let's just say, I wasn't joining the Y for a tune-up. I was there for a complete overhaul.

So, anyway, the kids and I went for two whole days in a row. I entered the "frequent Y-er" club (I might be lucky enough to win free Pilates classes which I will trade for a free Starbucks coffee and pastry with anyone who hankers to torture themselves). I came during the one rain storm we have had in South Texas for the past 6 months. I brought water. I had A BANANA for a snack on the way home. I had YOGURT for a snack at home. I was on my way.

Day three.

I couldn't move. COULD NOT MOVE. I literally sat down and felt like the Tin Man when he needed oil. Only I needed ibuprofen, some pillows, a back massage and chocolate.

DH (the fit one, remember), took a break from his 7 mile run on the treadmill (as a warm-up) to suggest that I "cut my reps in half". Hmm. That would be 2 1/2 reps at each machine. I was starting to wonder if that was actually worth getting in the car and driving to the Y.

Tomorrow is another week. I have taken 2 days off (to recuperate) and have tried to eat sensibly (ok, well, Cheese Puffs are CHEESE, right?), and I fully intend to get up in the morning and head out to the gym. Sweet Girl will make me. And after all, I do have that frequent "Y-er" card to fill out.