Pep Talk to Self

This January my husband and I joined a gym.

We hadn't planned on joining a gym. We tried out a pass for a local hospital owned one and were seduced by piles of white towels "Take as many as you like", regular looking people who went to the gym for its intended purposed (fitness, if you didn't know) and a veritable spa within the locker rooms. We found ourselves signing papers to become members at a place which put lemons in their drinking water. Lemons!

Since we have joined the gym, my husband has gone faithfully almost every day. His pants fit REALLY well right now. Muscles he thought he lost have appeared again. He claims he is almost addicted.

I'd like to tell you that I imitate his love of the gym.

I have been wondering why I do not share his love of the gym and I have come to realize that I have developed a phobia of preparing for the gym. I don't have a fear OF the gym... just PREPARING for it. And since this is the year 2012, I'm sure they have already come up with a name for my malady; it probably ends in "itis".

When my husband goes to the gym, he awakes at the pre-dawn hour of 4:30, bright eyed and eager to work out and head to the steam room for some relaxation. He comes home, drops off his dirty clothes in the laundry and goes to work. He goes in his sports car, the one without Cheerios on the floor, and he enters and leaves the gym in his timing. You could set a clock by the precision of his timing.

When I go to the gym, I look like a tumbleweed that is moving all its earthly possessions to the moon.

I think of all the layers I need: warmup clothes to go OVER the workout clothes.
*Some* of my workout clothes are actually maternity clothes.
Ma-ter-ni-ty clothes. (No, not pregnant.)
After shower clothes.
My special after shower paraphernalia.
Eve's diaper bag stuff.
A cell phone.
Preparing mentally for when Eve screams/runs when we enter/leave the car and enter/leave the childcare area.

It's apparent that I need a "define the relationship" talk with myself and my gym membership.

That I need to buy myself a few pieces of clothing that show myself that I intend to use the gym.

That I need to get my daughter Eve and myself into the mode of going there regularly.

That I need to pretend that preparing for the gym is effortless until I get into the groove.

I will find that rhythm. In fact, this morning I already jump started my day with an egg omelet, a cup of joe and--AND-- a stale cookie that soaked up the coffee beautifully as I dipped it in my mug.

I'd say I'm off to a good start.

See ya later, tumbleweed.