Monday, February 2, 2009

The First Week

The first week is hard. We decide to go after work, changing at my office and going straight to the facility. The gym is overwhelming when you're the biggest girl in the place, and I'm not ready to deal with changing rooms and showering there. I'm very self-conscience looking at myself in the mirror that runs the length of the gym. I look at myself and see a fat, ugly person who is out of place in her brand new exercise clothes. I despair because I'm never going to look like that svelte Young Trophy Wife that can go an hour on the Treadmill or the Thigh Killing Machine. Did I just imagine the look of disgust on that guy that's ripped and spends too much time working on his triceps? Maybe, but I still feel out of place. I'm reminded of every reason I hated gym class in school.

I'm thankful that there's a wide variety of people working out. I may be the biggest gal in the place, but I'm not the only one that needs help. I see normal people, and that makes me feel better. I'm not the only one that needs help.

The first day we wandered around lost. I'm sure we have the New Gym Member shine on us. I don't talk to anyone and no one talks to me. Husband and I walk a mile on the track, and I curse that I forgot my music player. I spend five minutes on the Thigh Killing Machine, and I know it's going to come back and haunt me because my thighs feel like jelly. I'm done.

Day two arrives and my thighs hurt. Oddly, I want to go to the gym and walk it off. We get there and walk the track. My thighs hurt and I don't quite make it a mile before I decide to do something else. I spend a few minutes on a couple weight machines working on my arms and upper body. I'm careful not to overdo it, but I still feel it the next day.

Saturday at the Y means lots of people. I do another mile on the track, and I love my little music player. Husband, who has longer legs than I do, does a little more than a mile. We decide that we're getting him his own music player for his birthday this month. Then we go down to the gym. I spend a whole song on the cross-country machine before I need a break. Then I do a little bit on the arm machines. After this, Husband and I decide that we're going to do a few more laps and call it a day.

Week one is over. I feel good about it. Nothing *hurts*, but I'm pleasantly sore. The scale in the locker room is mocking me, because I'm scared to see just how bad off I am. Husband tells me to just get it over with. I'll see how I feel about it next week.

Miles Walked: 3
Time on exercise machines: 20

The Premise.

It's hard to be fat and love to travel. Travelling might as well the be the past time of the lithe and svelte, and not the rotund and lumpy. Everything is geared towards the thin traveller, from airline seats to iteneraries. I happen to be fat and in love with traveling, and it's hard. We're going to spend two weeks in Scotland, and I'm a fat cow. This isn't how it's supposed to be!

Last year after my grandfather passed away, my sister and I had a bonding moment wherein we both were crying and hugging and we realised that life was too short. In that moment, a family trip was mentioned. Where shoud we go? It had to be an international trip! Sister said they had to speak English -even though I argued that most countries had more English speakers than not, she was persistant. There went visions of Japan, France, India, and Germany. England, I suggested, remembering fondly my short trip years ago, hoping to go back. No, Sister said, what about Scotland? You mean where Gerard Butler is from, I asked, concidering. Yes, she said, and reminded me that there were men in kilts wandering around the countryside. Damn, she found my kryptonite. I relented and it was decided. I caveated that we had to hit London at the very least. We agreed and that was that.

So I started planning the trip. August 2009 is the date. The tickets are bought and accomodations have been booked. There is an itenerary. We're going to be there for two weeks. Then it hit me. This is the Scottish Death March and I'm not going to make it out alive. I'm in my early thirties, and I won't be able to do everything that I want to do on this dream trip. Walking in the Highlands is going to kill me, I think. Not to mention all the walking at the museums and castles. I need a plan and a course of action!

Action, I think. That means only one thing. I have to lose weight and get into some semblance of shape in the next six months! That means change. I hate change. That's why I'm fat, lazy, and in this sorry state to begin with. There's nothing for it. I'm going to have to exercise. I convince my Husband to be my exercise partner.

We decided to join the local YMCA. We're going to go three times a week. We're going to survive the Scottish Death March if it kills us. It's Scotland or bust.