Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Sweating is not fun!

A Dollar’s Worth
By Alisa Dollar

It’s already into the New Year and I’ve broken a few unwritten, unspoken, but thought of resolutions.

I gave up writing promises to myself years ago. It's just better to break them when not written.

Usually it takes me longer than 10 days to start my downhill treadmill of shame.

I’ve lost 12 pounds since the first of December and my new year was to begin gym without complaining.

The good thing is I’ve started back to the gym. Carefully because I have two fake knees and a faulty shoulder, but I’ve started going.

The bad thing….I have an aversion to sweat. Thus, I complain.

You’d think with two unwritten, unspoken, thought of resolutions I could make it further into the year.

Not so.

I don’t understand why other people look good in sweat and seem to revel in those droplets drooling down well toned and flexing biceps on bodies to die for.

Men and women alike flex, stretch and bend to perfect reflections of themselves in the mirror.

What’s this obsession with mirrors? In a gym…sweating.

There are many more similar to me at the gym; it’s just hard to see them lurking in the shadows. They too are hovering in cynical reaction of the Bodies’ Beautiful and as far away from the mirrors as possible and still work out.

Bodies’ Beautiful all have the “right” clothing and shoes. Not only do they sweat prettily, they look pretty while doing so.

Spandex is queen (and king) in a gym these days.

No way am I dragging myself to the gym in clothes that take me more time to put on, much less take off with the added sweat.

I suppose if I really cared what I looked like while torturing myself, I’d wear prettier and newer sweats and t-shirts.

Since I don’t care, I wear the baggiest I can find with t-shirts just as baggy and seldom the same color. Plus all my t-shirts have something on them.

The last one I wore was Kinky Friedman. The one before that was Willie Nelson. It’s somehow comforting they sweat it out with me.

I’ve mentally added another resolution for the husband’s safety.

That being to not hurt him when I come home hot, tired, mad and sweaty and he looks at me and says, “Did you have fun?”

He just can’t seem to stop himself.

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