My Personal Meltdown

Photo by SashaW

The last time I entered a gym I was expecting to see sweaty people working themselves to death. Instead, I saw something that was a cross between the Victoria’s Secret lingerie catwalk and a speed dating convention. Attractive young women were in spandex bras with spandex shorts, tight stomachs, and full make-up. They tended to sit on the machinery and talk to equally attractive guys, flipping their hair without touching the weights.

Standing in my long sweatpants, long sleeve t-shirt and track shoes, I felt a little out of place. I actually needed to work-out, and wasn’t sure how to ask Gisele to move on to the next weight machine. I did see some women my age, but their apparent surgeries put me at a distinct disadvantage. And don’t tell me they were just in shape. A fifty-year-old woman does not lie on her back and have nothing on her body slide. If there is no movement, there is the presence of plastic.

I decided to focus only on the machines that required me to lie on my stomach. Once I finally found one open, I found that the grunting noise I made while pushing myself to lift more weight attracted the attention of the speed daters. They looked at me as if I had interrupted a nice dinner out.

I finally moved on to the treadmill, shedding my sweatpants despite my flaws. That was uncomfortable. Young girls would pass by, looking at my broken veins the way I used to look at older women’s legs. They had this look like, “God, I hope that never happens to me.”

I do remember the days when I had the body that required a skimpy bikini and short-shorts. Therefore, if younger Dames want to show off their bodies, I don’t blame them. Do it while you can. However, could you please stop sitting on the machinery? It might make you a little more toned, but it’s keeping me alive. Think of it as a defibrillator for Dames. We are required to partake.

Once I finally got on the treadmill I tried to look cool and let go of the side bars. I was also watching television and laughing at a scene from Will and Grace. Suddenly my foot caught the static side of the treadmill, and I fell forward and yelled out a nice uuuuuggggh as I caught myself by face-planting on the bottom of the display, causing a nice beeping sound that sounded like I might be backing up.

Yes, I’m proud of my body that has gotten me through softball, children, and years of high heels and Corporate America. However, I ended up setting up a gym at home. Somehow looking at tight middles while mine jiggles does not inspire me. And even the stuff that is toned is about three inches lower than it used to be. I feel a little like the Wicked Witch of the East, melting into the floor.

So, until there is a “Fifty and Over and No Plastic Zone” in my local American Family Fitness, I’m staying in the garage. I’d like to melt privately, if you don’t mind. [youtube][/youtube]