January 6, 2012

But I'm a Fucking DEDICATED Panty Waist

By the time I was ready to say "I don't" to my now ex-husband, time, emotions, birth control, and bleu cheese dressing had enabled me to turn myself into a gelatinous blob with an unfortunate haircut.  I got sick of feeling like the Micheline man, so I decided to do something about it.  Well, let's be honest, I paid someone to help me do something about it.  I hired a trainer to kick my ass.

I am a bamboo forest of a woman.  Howl on great wind, I will bend, but I won't break.  And I make a fantastic paddle when it comes time to hand your ass to you on a platter and ask you if you enjoyed the spanking.  However, when it comes to sweating and getting off the couch, I'm a cream puff.  We're talking, 10 minutes on an elliptical and I need to hose down my legs because they feel like they just might spontaneously combust.  Add on top of that a diet that would make Dahmer question who taught me how to feed myself, and I am one unhealthy sumbitch. 


Let me set the stage for you.  I went in to this with the agreement that the trainer I was going to see had a 5:00 PM slot for now, but I could take the 6:00 PM when it became available.  I preferred the later time so I could make sure I had my gym bag with me, eat something before I worked out, and make sure that my dogs were taken care of.  The 5:00 slot kept me from doing all that, and I paid for it.  In more than one way.

I think this was the perfect storm that created my most embarrassing day in yoga pants. Picture if you will, a zaftig woman in all black, bright red hair, and a Betty Boop bandanna holding her hair back.  I've got a laugh that you can't miss, and a glow in the dark complexion.  Safe to say, I'm really hard to miss, even if I want to blend in.

My trainer and I are working on the weights when I start to feel a little woozy. Bear in mind I haven't had much water, a small lunch, and I had JUST finished my protein bar about 20 minutes earlier.  So it hadn't been in my stomach long.  (I had to do this since I eat so early in the day, I'm running on fumes by the time I get out of my khakis.)

I'm sitting there on the weight bench having gotten a drink of water, and I start to realize, something's rotten in Denmark.  I started to hear my surroundings like I had cotton balls in my ears.  I got cold.  I mean REALLY cold.  My vision started to dim around the edges, and all I could think of was "Oh, shit.  Not this again.  I don't wanna pass out and puke like I did on the plane during that one family vaca. . ..  *zonk*

Next thing I know, I was waking up to a juice box being shoved in my face, being asked if I'm a diabetic, and am told that I was out for a minute or two.  Because I actually lost consciousness, the gym HAD to call 911 for liability reasons, and the paramedics were on their way. Great....

Let's review something quickly.  In my job, I talked to city and county employees about their IT needs.  This included firemen.  There's a good chance that the people who were on their way to rescue my pasty ass are the people I've good naturedly teased over the phone about forgetting their passwords, or accidentally turning off the station cable modem when using the microwave for a hot pocket.  Oh, fuck me.

So, not only was I without all of my handful of melanin cells after fainting, but no fewer than 6 burly paramedics and a stretcher show up after a few minutes. They, after all, had to make sure I wasn't going to die.  Remember, my session started at 5:00.  So by this time, the majority of the machines were in use by the after work crowd, and the pretty people love to gawk just as much as the rest of us.  Even in my diminished capacity, I could tell someone has spun the volume knob of the room to the left, and the weight of all eyes on me was heavier than anything arm day could have thrown my direction.

Now, the mind is a powerful thing.  However, contrary to popular belief, or even what I wanted at the time, it is impossible to die of embarrassment.  Oh, I wanted to.  I craved nothing more than a puff of smoke and the sweet sound of life's record scratch.  Because, you see, not only was I woozy and clammy, but these guys were smokin' hot.  *wimper*  Thankfully, they were also all business.  One of them stuck my finger in the EKG, another put my arm in a blood pressure cuff, and a third took some blood to check my sugars. They seamlessly managed all of this while making sure I was ok by asking me questions. When they asked me my name, I said "Trouble, spelled Ephemily.", and cracked a weak smile.  I'm glad they understood that it was knee-jerk attempt at humor and not that I'd had a stroke.  I don't think I could have faced an ER doc that day.

I don't remember if we continued with the session, but I do distinctly remember slithering down the stairs to the locker room, grabbing the darkest shower stall they had, and wishing that I drove anything but a bright yellow car in which to make my getaway slink.  Lesson learned?  Humble pie contains no nutrition for the person consuming it.  Also, I'm a fish riding a bicycle when it comes to spending time in a fitness center.

And that concludes another episode of how Ephemily is a shining example of unintended duality.  She's tenacious as a pit-bull, with devil's horns, and a wit made of verbal towel snaps.  But, she gets a mean case of the vapors when it comes to lifting 20 lbs over her head more than 5 times.

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