I joined a gym.
I joined a gym.
Yes, I, the Queen of the Big Butt Women, have decided that it is time to relinquish my crown and get my butt into shape. A shape that isn’t so large. And maybe a shape that is relatively cellulite-free.
This decision wasn’t made lightly. But a couple of weeks ago, I started thinking that maybe I should do something to tighten my abs. Or at least find my hipbones. They had disappeared long ago. I think they might still be on my body; it’s just a matter of where.
But the real reason I joined a gym was Junior. Last week, I bent over to pick something up and Junior said, “Wow, Mom. You have a big bum!” Even though I’m sure Junior did not mean to insult me, it did get my butt in gear.
So I joined a gym.
Now I’ve joined a few gyms in the past. I’m not very good at picking gyms. The first one I joined had an aerobics class called “Blood and Guts.” I spent the entire class jumping, kicking, waving my arms and praying that I wouldn’t pass out. I couldn’t get out of bed for two days. It was months before I could walk normally again. And my butt was still the same size.
So I waited a few years before I repeated the gym-joining experience. And I made sure there weren’t any classes called “Blood and Guts.” Unfortunately, I didn’t make sure that there wasn’t a Bambi there. Bambi was a 20-year old bleached blond with perfect abs who immediately wanted to take my measurements. I didn’t want Bambi to take my measurements. Please. The circumference of my arm was larger than Bambi’s rear.
But even the measurements couldn’t compare to the spin class.
The spin class was Bambi’s class. It took about two minutes of spinning for me to realize that Bambi was an exercise Nazi, determined to make everyone on earth have tight butts. And all the victims in the spin class were terrified of Bambi and her rock-hard abs. I snuck out while Bambi was yelling at a helpless spinner whose shoes had become untied. I never went back.
So I was prepared when I went to the new gym to sign up. There were no Bambi’s. There was no “Blood and guts” class. Oh, it went well enough at first. I suffered through the measurements. But I didn’t whimper when the personal trainer read them out loud – so loud I’m sure the people in the tanning booths heard. No, it was the goal setting that got to me.
Now goal setting sounds reasonable. I mean, you came into the gym for a reason, right? So you set goals. The personal trainer said these should be “substantial.” That meant my goals – which were to fit into my jeans and to wear a bathing suit that did not have a built-in corset to suck in my gut and a skirt attached to hide my thighs – were shallow.
I was at a complete loss. I mean, if you don’t go to a gym to shrink the size of your butt, then why are you there? The personal trainer actually suggested I was there to get healthy. I was shocked. I mean, she’d taken my measurements. She clearly knew how large my butt was. But I let her write down the healthy goal.
But deep down inside, I know that my real goal is to become a mere Princess of the Big Butt Women. And to fit into my jeans.
