Aqua di Gio, o Dios Mio.

            I’m not going to pussy-foot around, my run sucked ass today. I felt pretty tired. I’ve kicked my body, and it’s starting to kick back.

            I approached the treadmill wall today and, to my satisfaction, it was pretty empty. I notice one treadmill on the end, next to one that has parts scattered next to it. It has a sign stating the obvious need of repair. I consider not taking this one because I might have to thunder and sweat all over some poor handyman that might be on break. Wow, that sounded like a bad porn.

            On the other hand, no one will be running next to me. I decide to go for it. I’m only on this thing for about a half hour and if the guy comes back it won’t be so long.

            I made sure to stretch more on Tuesday so I wouldn’t feel so tight (normally my pants are the only tight thing on me). My run started out ok, but every time I run I feel like I’m getting overheated really quickly. I keep water and a sweat towel handy.

            The water and the sweat towel were not doing it today. I was trying to concentrate on my breathing. They say a watched pot never boils (and it’s true, I have anticipated many a pasta dish losing that game) and the same is true for a timed interval. One and a half pathetic minutes drag by. I try ignoring the clock and focusing on my breathing and the Rob Zombie music pounding in my ears. This was all going fine, until Handy fucking Hank came back.

            I don’t want to make fun of this guy, because it looks like his job sucks, but he is pertinent to the demise of my run. First of all, you can tell he is strictly maintenance at this gym. He sticks out like the beer belly over his jeans. I shouldn’t throw stones, but I’m on the one on the treadmill, and he’s struggling to fix one around my jiggling body.

            He actually was doing a good job of steering clear of me. His overpowering cologne did not. I mean Jesus buddy, Curve for Men does not equal a shower. They have showers where you work, what the fuck are you doing? Making me nauseous that’s what you’re doing. 

            A combination of my fatigue, frustration, and a Hugo Boss headache force me to stop with the intention of switching treadmills. I get on one on the other side of the wall, and I get one intending to finish my measly two intervals. I then realize my body feels like someone beat me with a club and I cannot. I get on the elliptical to make my remaining time respectable.

            I go to work, feeling beaten. My headache also starts to worsen. Damn, I only had one (tall) glass of wine last night. I know, one too many the night before a run, but I was writing and it felt right. What the hell was that guy wearing? Sex Panther? Before I know it my body feels achy. I go to a work lunch and don’t want a burger. WHOA WHAT?  A burger doesn’t sound good to me? Something is definitely wrong. I mean, I know I’ll live because I went with a wrap and sweet potato fries, but I felt even shittier after.

            There has been a lot of illness going around my office. I was bragging about my immune system just yesterday, and a workout usually boosts it. Maybe I’m getting sick. I start to feel better mentally, maybe that’s why I felt so fatigued this morning.

            My head still hurts, and I should have taken some NyQuil and gone to bed, but the Twins are playing the Yankees in post-season, and I felt like writing, and some wine…really shouldn’t take NyQuil after wine. That probably would make for an interesting post.

            I’m toying with the idea of hitting up a yoga class tomorrow night. I am wary of group classes because I had a bad experience.

            I was at the gym one fine day, I might have even been doing a little running, and I saw a class starting to assemble. I think it was a step class or something. I had been working out for about 30 minutes and was feeling pretty good so I figured what the hell? I’ll give it a shot.

            I follow the lead of some ladies and select a couple different sizes of hand weights and some step contraption. Why do those things have to have these neon colors that make it look like they came straight out of my Mom’s old school Denise Austin workout on VHS? Do you know that bitch is still smiling into cameras telling us we can do it? I have a very dusty Pilates DVD of hers.

            Anyway, I have all my equipment together and pop a squat on my stepper and assess my classmates. I notice immediately that they are all fit. Like very fit. I start to panic. I do not belong here. I consider leaving, but I’m sweaty and I feel my ass cheeks have left marks on the stepper. I stand and pretend to stretch. Confirmed. Disgusted, I sit back down to keep it covered.

            I start to calm myself down and tell myself that these women are not freaks, but they are fit because they actually are regulars at this gym and attend classes. The fact that they are not pieces of shit like myself doesn’t mean I can’t do this class.

            So wrong.

            The instructor bounces in. I do not need to describe her; I believe we all know the type. We get started, and people are distracted enough for me to stand up.

            I’d like to believe I’m not that uncoordinated. I was in dance and cheerleading and actually excelled in them, but this class made me look like I was trying to get on a bike without arms. That’s not really funny, but if you think about that looks, it makes sense.

            Not only am I stumbling, this class is really fucking hard. I’m exhausted. I look at the clock. Oh, five minutes down, only forty to go. Come on, Amy, you can take anything for 45 minutes.

            Around minute nine, I start assessing my situation. The mirrored wall is showing everyone my awkward, red-faced attempt at this class. Is it more embarrassing for me to continue this death march, or just abandon ship?

            I realize that I had to take too much goddamn equipment out for this cluster fuck that I can’t put it back in one trip. I would have to make two trips, or just leave some crap behind. I’m not even close to the door. Dear God, why didn’t I go into this without an escape plan? Now I would look fat and like an asshole. Someone else has to put my stuff away.

            Minute twelve, and I don’t even care anymore. I’m here on a day I normally work, and I tell myself I won’t see these women again. I stalk out like I have somewhere important to be, which turns out to be on the couch with a Bud Light.

            Josh comes home and I start to tell him the story. He cuts me off.

            Josh-“How many minutes did you make it?”

            Me-“How did you know I didn’t finish?”

            Josh-“Oh you did?”

            Me, hanging my head in shame.-“No. I made it twelve minutes”

            Josh looks at me for a while and says, “Good God,” and starts laughing. I start laughing too. It feels good to laugh.

            So, I might get the courage to go to yoga tomorrow, I might not. Either way, I think I have to stay on this interval this week before advancing.