Last week I decided to get fit.
Get motivated. Eat right. Lose weight- gain confidence!
It’s been ten days and let me tell you:
It’s really fucking tiring.
Day One:
Zumba.
This is the art of dancing for exercise. I’ve seen me dance. It ain’t pretty. My shirt keeps coming up and my gut pops out. It was like a constant reminder of why I had to be there.
The Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor (stands in the middle of the room and we stand facing her. She dances. We dance. The Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor cheers in another language! We mumble something in a Spanish accent. There’s no clock in the room. I stop several times to use the bubbler outside the room. There is a clock near the bubbler. It ticks very slowly.
The girl next to me at Zumba is a free spirit. Her unkempt Rapunzel-length hair is also doing Zumba. On my shoulder. I dream of being in a room where the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor is tired, everyone is bald and I’m wearing a watch.
And then there’s Sarah. This bitch is the epitome of keen. And boy oh boy has she done this before. She stands RIGHT AT THE FRONT. She is practically straddling the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor. And she knows all the moves. She demonstrates this by doing them a fraction of a second before the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor. At least the rest of us were keeping in time. And if she knows all the fucking moves she should get to the back. Or do it at home.
Urgh.
Then Keen Sarah starts getting call-outs from the Very Enthusiastic Zumba Instructor. “Yeah Sarah! Pump it! Yeah!” And when she gets the call-outs she goes fuckin nuts. Waving. Flailing. The whole kit and caboodle. It was a display to say the least.
I could tell from looking at her mousey ponytail that she’s one of those beige people who has no personality (or shame) and has to make things up to seem like she does. You know? Like I bet she’s like, “Yeah it’s spelt Sarah. Like the normal way with an H. But you say it Sara.”
Oh yeah, like that makes you fucking interesting.
God I hate Keen Sara(h).
I consider punching her in the back of the head. I would be escorted out. I would be banned from the gym for life. I would be a disgrace. I would have to attend anger management classes. They might serve little sandwiches there.
Come to think of it- Sounds fucking brilliant.
Days Two, Three and Four:
Rest. Focus on hating Keen Sarah and giving self a confidence boost by day-dreaming about things that she probably can’t do. Like tell a decent joke. Or unpack the dishwasher in the minute it takes for the leftovers to heat up in the microwave for lunch.
Sarah can’t. Sara can’t.
It feels good.
Day Five:
Mum, Dad, J-Bo and Alex embark on the Gerringong to Kiama walk.
“Sian, are you coming?”
Sian: “Fuck that.”
I roll around my friend’s lounge room on her Dad’s fitness ball. She gets hold of my legs and I roll off the side and hurt myself. It was a fabulous display of my core strength.
Day Six:
Rest.
Recovering from FBI (Fit Ball Injury).
Day Seven:
I run around the block to see how long it will take. I am so puffed I can hardly breathe and purposely time it so that I have to stop at a red light. I feel good about myself. Real clever and cunning. I certainly wouldn’t want to cross the road in an unsafe manner. I might get hit by a passing motorist and lose the use of my legs. I might never be able to walk or run again. J-Bo would have to push me around in my wheelchair. There could be a drink holder in the arm of my wheelchair. I could keep my beer there.
Come to think of it- Sounds fucking brilliant.
I get home from my run. I am dying. Gagging. Gasping. I feel sick. It must have been at least forty minutes. I look at my watch.
It was eleven minutes.
I ran for eleven fucking minutes (including the red light). Starting to understand why there’s no clock at Zumba.
I do twenty sit-ups. It seems to take several hours.
Day Eight:
J-Bo and I go running (walking) around Moore Park. My legs hurt. My stomach is ripped to shreds from all the sitting up. I whinge. A lot.
J-Bo says, “Geez,” at me and sighs.
I know she really wants to say, “What the fuck is your problem?”
Moving. Moving is the fuck my problem.
Day Nine:
More running and walking in the park. More painful sit-ups. I never want to sit-up again. I wish I’d never learnt to.
I kneel down at work for something. I can’t get back up for several minutes.
We have fish and salad for dinner. I’m so hungry I can’t sleep.
I get a text from J-Bo who is one room away.
It says: “I’m so fucking hungry.”
Tell me about it.
Day Ten:
I can’t get out of bed. I have had no sleep. Every time I rolled over in my sleep I woke up from pain. I dreamt McDreamy put me on a morphine drip. He didn’t.
I hate living up a ladder. I’ll be stuck up here for life. J-Bo will have to bring KFC to my bed. And cheap pizza on Tuesdays. And some garlic bread. She’ll get sick of bringing me drinks and eventually get me one of those beer dispensing helmets to wear in bed. I could drink anything I wanted through the straws on my new hat. I’d call it my “straw hat”. I’d love my own pun. Eventually I’d be lifted out the roof on a crane. I’d be on the news. I may meet Oprah. She’d probably pay for lunch.
Come to think of it- Sounds fucking brilliant.
Day Eleven Reflection:
Nothing's changed. I'm the same fat fuck I ever was. J-Bo is probably so repulsed by me she'll never want to go out with me in public again. She'll probably just make me stay home and cook the dinner. It could be lasagne. But with schnitzel instead of pasta.
I look in the mirror.
At least I can say I have a nice personality.
Sarah can't.
