I made it to the gym for five consecutive days. I’ve been steady on my water and in or under my calorie goals. I’m feeling good, tired, a little sore, but good. Oh and I’ve lost 2.5 pounds. It’s Friday; I’m tired and I need/want to do at least thirty minutes of cardio. I got back on the stationary bike cause, let’s face it, any exercise that includes sitting down has GOT to be less tiring than the rest. Man was I wrong. I don’t know if 7.5 miles in 35 minutes is good or not. I do know I’m beat. It felt vigorous so I logged it as vigorous.
There I am legs, music and sweat pumping and the heel of my foot hits something. Hard. Per the machine attached to bike, I was going at 105 rpm. I’m guessing that stands for Rotations Per Minute. So when my heel hit whatever it hit, it, uh, well, it hurt. My leg stuttered, for lack of a better descriptive word, and the whole area kind of sang as I sat there trying to figure out how I hurt myself on a bike that doesn’t move. I’m sitting down! Holding on to handles! My feet are in little stirrups [shudder, stirrups]! How is this possible? Did I accidently program the machine to include pot holes and wipe outs? No… that is not it. Oh yeah, I forgot, I’m the clumsiest person to ever live. That explains it. Hell that explains just about everything.
Okay Wednesday I took a step class I know from past experience is KILLER and the instructor, a wonderful person outside the gym, is a fucking psycho. I knew I was going to be sweating and panting and just in general wishing I was dead for the entire forty-five minute long class. I’d decided going in that I was just going to be happy if I could keep up throughout the entire lesson. Well about three quarters of the way in I put my left foot down in the wrong spot, while standing on top of the step. I bobbled, my ankle twisted and it gave up the brave fight to keep me upright. Shit. Momentum had me tilting to the left and suddenly I was airborne headed directly for the perky brunette on the step beside me. Double shit. With lightening fast reflexes [ha ha], I throw my substantial weight back toward the step and hit, tailbone first, hard and loud.
I wanted to die. My ass agreed. So did my ankle. My pride did not. My friend stopped instructing and came over to check on me. Everyone stared. I wiggled. I tested my weight. I decided I was good to go and got back on my step, marching in place. She made everyone applaud my dedication. Apparently I am fierce. Nah. I’m just stubborn.
Stubborn enough to go back to the gym yesterday and lift weights with the menfolk. Stubborn enough to go today and sit my hopefully-soon-to-be-not-fat ass on the stationary bike and pedal, vigorously, for 7.5 miles despite a bruised ego, earning my second twisted ankle in one week. Now I got a set…bitch.*
*Don’t know why I put bitch in there but it made me feel good to say it and since lunch was a yogurt and a fucking banana I’ll take whatever small pleasures I can glean from the day.