Summer Camp for Old People – My mom’s gym

I spent the weekend in FL – 3 “glorious” days. It was my mom’s birthday. My parents live in an “Active Adult Community” (aka summer camp for the aging). You have to be over 55 to live there, and your kids have to be over 18 if they are going to live with you. The whole place sucks. If you go to the pool, and close your eyes, you swear you’re in the old country. Or New York. The accents are thick and the volume is set at 11.

They sit in circles and gossip about what the other old people are doing. Oh – and they cause trouble! My mom said that they can’t bring gym bags to the “sports club” anymore, only clear bags, because people were stealing weights. Stealing weights!!! They fight over tennis times and police one another at the pool – “Are you sure you can eat heee-ah?” They take aerobics classes and whine about the instructors. “Ohh… she’s tough! What does she think we’re 20 or somethin’?” *sigh*

So with all that said – going down to spend time at summer camp is never all that pleasant. But their gym is incredible. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of going to the gym with my mom.

When you go there,You know the nagging thing moms do? The looking-over-your-shoulder-on-the-computer-asking-”what’s that?” thing? My mom does that, oh, does she ever. But this weekend when I was down there, she brought her 4-star nagging to the gym.

The gym is my safe space. When I needed to zen out after a day and a half of dealing with my mom and dad, I didn’t go to the beach, I went to the gym. Looking hot. Because some of these old people have super hot kids. Not many — but some. Unfortunately, my mom came along with me.

“So, Jane. Can we work out together?”

“No.”

5 minutes later -

“Can you show me a few exercises?”

“No.”

With phat beats coming from the overhead speakers (Johnny Angel? Really?), I was pumped up. Gah. I stuck my earphones in and turned up the volume. I went straight into lunges. I was super focused. I needed this workout.

“Jane? *mumble mumble*” I saw her lips moving, but I didn’t have a clue, mid-lunge, what the heck she wanted.

I dropped my left earphone – “Jane, what are those for?”

“Your legs, ma. They’re bad for your knees. Don’t bother.”

I didn’t mean to blow her off, but I am really used to working out alone. With all the voices in my head. I mean music! The music.

I finally think she got the point and left me to my workout. Finally. It was the only 25 minutes I had sans nagging for my entire stay. It was a great workout. I showed up the one other old guy working out there. Hell yeah I can curl as much as you, old guy.

I am so sad.

Lessons learned: Gym alone, always. Show up everyone in the gym regardless of how old and decrepit they are. Always look cute. Because some of those old decrepit guys you’re showing up have cute sons. Or so I hear.

The Grunt

Do you grunt? That situationally specific, quasi-erotic, quasi-excruciating sound heard echoing through the gym?

I am typically *not* a grunter. If I ever do let one slip, it typically blends into the white noise of the packed club, stifled by the more manly grunts in the sweat-laden, testosterone-thick free weight room.

But today I worked out at the gym in my building. It’s nice, but small, and doesn’t have enough mirrors (a topic for another time). I started my workout with the entire gym to myself. Dark and echoey, I lifted, lunged, and pressed, bopping along to the music playing a little too loudly in my crappy sony earbuds.

Some guy walked in ruining my groove around the middle of my second set. Bastard. But I soldiered on in our awkward propinquity. After his stretches and my lunges he headed to the gazelle elliptical thing and I moved on to pushups.

Big girl pushups, bitches. F- yeah!

I got through 13 with no problem. 14 was a struggle, and on 15 I lost it.

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAGH!

The unintentional grunt. It echoed. So. Awkward.

He turned. I could feel it. What was he thinking? What a freak? What a hot, grunting muscle-y chick? Doubt it.

While moderately embarrassed, I just got up and finished my workout, with a little less exuberance than before. I couldn’t afford another slip up. Not because he cared, but because I do not want to slip into the grunts-at-the-gym club. No one likes the gym grunter. I cannot be one of them.

So tell me, are you a gym grunter?

Gym Rat Jane’s Passover: The Aftermath

For newcomers to Gym Rat Confidential, you may not know I’m Jewish.

Hi. I’m Jewish.

So, It’s Passover. Passover basically involves carb-loading for 8 days (7 in Israel?) by way of Matzah and fruit and potatoes. Protein is such an after thought. Well, that is unless you’re lucky enough to have leftover brisket.

I just left seder part 2 of 2. Aside from the inability to button my pants, the slight difficulty breathing, and the unfortunate pain in my side… It. Was. Amazing. (I’ll let her give you the menu. I won’t do it justice.)

But why, pray tell, do the Jews have to have so many holidays that involve eating every unhealthy thing in the world? I mean, seriously. And two nights in a row!

So, my plan for Passover: Skip the matzah. And the rest of the carbs. (Except Tuesday night when I’m making someone special dinner.) Go carb-free for a few days and ramp up the exercise. It was about time I did that anyway.

There seriously needs to be some sort of Jewish Holiday Workout Plan. How to eat enough to make your Jewish Mother happy and stay svelt enough to attract a guy who will eventually want you to cook for him. Somehow account for fast-breaking/multi-night-feasting and carbo-loading all packed into tight little holiday bundles various times throughout the year.

I guess the same would go for Christians around Christmas. So many candy canes and Happy Birthday Jesus cakes! But is there the “clean your plate — we were hungry slaves once you know!” guilt?

Tomorrow night is Body Pump. I’m not a huge fan of the new routine and new soundtrack, but I’ll go back because a) it’s how I do, and b) I have to be able to rebutton my pants at some point in the future. It might give my Tuesday night dinner guest the wrong impression.

Cardio Hiatus

For my life I cannot motivate my mildly jiggly ass to get back into a cardio routine. But full disclosure – I’d rather cut my toes off than do cardio at all.

During my “big loss” (60 lbs), I had been what some would call “religious” with my cardio – 4 days a week I’d be out there. First the recumbent bike, then walking, then ralking (run/walking), then finally, years later, running full out.

I ran my first 5K in November and then I found out that knees are not so much built for the running. Nooooo. Bad knees. So, I spent some time trying to f1×0rize my knees with stretching, strengthening, positive energy in their general direction. But in the time I spent trying to get them back in order, I’ve kind of lost all desire to move rapidly for extended periods of time. I am officially on cardio hiatus. I really hope that come summer time I’ll have more motivation to do things that aren’t cardio-dedicated. I think I’m more apt to expend caloriebusting minutes doing things like hiking, rollerblading, playing baseball, etc. than I am going on a run. Blah.

So. Here’s to summer and getting back on the cardio horse. I’m going to need all the encouragement I can get.

Hangover Run – The ultimate cure

Silent G told me once that he goes on a run when he’s hungover. I told him he was an idiot, but I think I get it now.

After a 4 margarita night with the girls, we woke up this morning (hungover) and decided to go on a (very, very short jog-like) run to breakfast.

It was short, but absolutely amazing.*

Do you ever run to get rid of a hangover?

*That’s what she said?

Thank you, Dish Network!

I got off work at 8pm. I forgot my iPod. My workout got off to an amazing start.

I go down to the basement to start lifting. But something wasn’t right. For 10 minutes, I heard Big Brother (and Sister) talking about how to setup and use the Dish Network. Somehow, overhead speakers had been flipped to the Dish Network’s informational channel – audio only.

By then, everyone in the free weight area was eying eachother, begging “What. The. Fuck?” of the fellow gymrats. They did it without saying a word. Until, ya know, I said a word.

“Um… anyone else cool with this whole Dish Network thing?” I got some grins… and then, it happened.

He walked down the stairs. If it were a movie he’d have been in slow motion, smoke would have come billowing out from behind him, and the dramatic music would have crescendoed (and he would have started tossing his hair… if he was a chick… in a slinky dress…). But, we were at the gym, so he just kind of bounced down the stairs and started his workout.

Then, he took his earbud out of his ear and gazed at the ceiling. He had noticed the Dish Network soundtrack and, through his own music, had just joined the ranks of the annoyed.

This Jane calls that an “in”.

“Yeah – I know, right? What’s that about?” I’m so clever.

He gives a smirk and a nod. His name is Plank Guy*. After I went upstairs to save the day and came down successful, I walked over and said “hi.” “So, you used to be Plank Guy*, but I guess I can call you “Earth Treks Guy” now.” (Yes, I said that. Yes, I called him Plank Guy.)

“Oh, you go there? Do you climb?”

Yes. Yes I do. Or at least I do for the purposes of this conversation. It wasn’t a lie. It was a perfectly reasonable, if not mildly overblown, statement of fact.

5 minutes later, I got back to working out. No one likes to be interrupted. But on the way out, I stopped him.

“My name is Jane. I call you Plank Guy, but….”

“I’m [Not Plank Guy]. Nice to meet you, Jane.”

Fuck. Yeah. Another one in the bag.

*Plank Guy is Plank Guy because he gets into plank position and stays there for up to 4 minutes while reading an article positioned below him. It’s amazing to behold for any number of reasons.

You Lookin’ at Me? (Revisted)

This post is about my gym and how much I friggen LOVE it there. Why? Because there, I don’t give a CRAP about what others think of me. There, I, in my own mind, and the sexxiest bitch in the room…

I’m sure you can imagine me in my little gym outfit: hair perfectly thrown into a high ponytail, tight workout pants with no VPL because of the “gym-thong“, and a hot little sportsbra.

Um… No, no. I’m over here. Yeah, that’s me in the stained tanktop and ilfitted pants because I’m too cheap to actually pay money for gym clothes. My hair is thrown into some semblance of a nest atop my head, and my legs are not shaved. So not shaved.

Now, ladies, feel free to be jealous. Go on. I’ll wait. I go to the gym and unapologetically strut around looking like absolute crap and don’t have anything to worry about. Why? Because I go to a “soccer mom gym”. I believe I’ve mentioned it before. Because the majority of the women at my gym are old and, well, soccermomish, I tend to go to the gym and feel pretty damn good about myself.

With my gym-specific self esteem, I have fallen victim to what I’m sure is a disorder: I love to catch people looking at me when I workout. I am not so naive to think they aren’t staring at my hairy armpits or crooked glasses, but I much prefer to think they are staring at my bulging muscles and glistening sweat. Delusions work for me. Whatever. Don’t judge.

Some women hate going to the gym because they have to look all prim and proper and cute and show off for all the other women who are there. And the guys. I say, take back the gym. Own it. Tell those cute bitches to go shove it. Tell them you hope their thong slices right through their butt cheeks while they’re on the stairmaster.

But don’t get me wrong, sometimes if I know I’ll be at the gym at the same time as one of the 3 hot guys who goes to my gym, I’ll opt for the short tennis socks instead of my super hot slouch socks that look so rad with my cropped gym pants. Or, I’ll wear my black tanktop instead of my pit stained white tank top just for an added confidence booster.

Look, I’ve been working out regularly for 2 years now and at this point I’m bored. I hate it. My routine has become… routine? I need a little something to get me through each exercise. Something to get me to the gym. Playing games with boys at the gym, even when I know full well I’m the only one of the two of us playing, is fine with me. Hopping from machine to machine to get closer to my target, hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye as I lift round abouts 1/3 of the weight he’s lifting. Hoping more that he’ll see me lifting said weight, fall madly in love with me for who I am on the inside and never have to go back to the f-ing gym again… ever. Gah.

But with that hope dwindling, I continue to go to the gym, continue to let the other soccer moms stare with udder jealously as I hold the attention of… like that one guy over there who thinks he’s not too old or too married to hold court with a 25 year old gymrat like me. I continue to secretly revel in the knowledge that I can easily lift 3-5 lbs more than these women twice my age. I take pride in the fact that they wasted all their money on cute matching outfits when I look so clearly hot in my mismatched, dirty hand me downs.

Today, the goal is to make it through the day, my muscles twitching in pain from taking a gym class that was just so far out of my athletic capabilities…. one that was populated entirely by these same soccer moms who thankfully didn’t notice the 5′9” young (hot) chick at the back of the class who couldn’t quite keep up. Damn it.

Footloose: Jane’s Barefoot Body Pump

My mom’s in town. Staying with me. She is, um, a neurotic woman. And she’s a morning person. I, however, am not.

So this morning while I was busy avoiding her, I packed my gym clothes and left them by the door, ready to grab-and-go as I left for work. I was a little frazzled by the pre-8am inquisition.

I headed to work and spent the day frazzled by a completely mindless project that I managed to botch terribly. Because I’m awesome like that.

I came home for lunch and had yet another long discussion with my mother about stuff that I didn’t want to talk about, then back to work for more fixing-the-thing-I-screwed-up. This fixorating kept me at work late, and I ran out the door to the gym in an attempt to make my 7:00pm Body Pump class. I was focused acutely on the task of getting to the gym, finding parking, changing, and getting in line — prepared to elbow the other bitches out of the way. (The front right corner is mine. I make a reservation every week. Get in fucking line.)

So I arrive at the gym and find my body-pumping-coworker in the locker room. We exchange pleasantries and started changing into our hottest workout gear. I threw my bag into the locker and put the lock on.

Problem.

No shoes.

WHAT THE FUCK! I left my fucking shoes at home. But I do not miss Body Pump. So after confirming that I am an idiot, I start asking around. Shockingly enough, no one had a spare size 10 pair of shoes.

So what do I do? Hmm? I fucking do Body Pump barefoot. It was actually an interesting experience. I won’t go into the “wow, I felt so grounded” stuff. It was just a completely different feeling. My balance was different. My toes were digging harder. I was a barefooted, hippie, weightlifting machine.

Oh, and a complete idiot. I blame my mom because it’s what I do. If she wasn’t pestering me all morning, I wouldn’t have forgotten my shoes, right?

Yeah – probably not. Just an idiot.

“That was quick!” — Another “That’s what she said” moment

You know what drives me nuts? I read everywhere that even if all you can do is 15 minutes at the gym, you should still go. Anything is better than nothing, right? Since I’ve had a harder and harder time fitting in gym time, my “all I can do” workouts have been my saving grace. With plans tonight, 20 minutes was all I could do…

I finished my cardio and headed for the door.

I saw the dickhead “trainer” who works for the gym standing at the front desk and I knew what was coming.

“Wow. That was quick.”

Yeah, numbnuts. Thanks. I’m so glad you have finally figured out a way to encourage me. And you wonder why people don’t pay for your personal training.

That was quick? Yeah. That’s what she said.

Nothing to be ashamed of…

It started off with a negotiation:

Me: I really want to see you, but…

Him: But you can’t afford me.

He was right.

Him: I usually charge $500 for 10 sessions. But I’ll give you a deal.

Me: Anything. I’d appreciate it.

He offered me 2 sessions. $60 each. I couldn’t afford it but I couldn’t say no.

Have I mentioned that my trainer is hot!

I really needed a kick in the pants and I wanted him to do the kicking.

When we met for the first time, he sat down and he listened to me.

When I started the workout, he encouraged me. He was focused on me. There wasn’t anyone else in the world. It was worth every penny.

Yeah – I paid him to make me the center of his world for 2 sessions, 1 hour each. Maybe it’s a little like prostitution. But I’m not ashamed. Maybe I’m the John.

But you can call me Jane.