As those of you who’ve been following me for a few weeks already know, I’ve been training for my first 5K . Ok. Truth be told, it’ll also be my first 1K, 2K, etc. Never mind that agreeing to run this 5K was an oral contract entered into while ingesting some of Kansas City’s finest Boulevard Wheat with a lemon wedge (HEY, don’t judge! It’s a fruit serving, right?).
But, as a woman of integrity, I’ve been keeping my word. And I’m kind of glad about it. I have hit the gym several times. Even bought a membership (and with the help of the colossally cool LT, I bought new running shoes which are the BOMB, I tell ya!). And for the record, I’m not the most out of shape person at the gym. I’m about average. Not super athletic. Not hopelessly tripping over my own two expensively-clad-in-new-running-shoes feet.
To be fair, this IS the first month after New Year’s Resolutions. I fully expect to be the most out of shape person still hanging out there by February 1, but hopefully I’ll make some C25K progress by then. And, God willing, I’ll still be there trying to juggle the exercise app on my smart phone and move my feet at the same time.
So, tonight was my first “long” visit to the gym. Thing One had his Friday night teenage ninja class and I had two hours to kill. Off to the gym I went.
I did my C25K training for about 40 minutes, and then I headed to the locker room to change for a nice Friday night treat of relaxing in the spa. Changing INTO my swimsuit wasn’t a problem. Finding the spa proved to be fairly easy too.
Deciding to actually put my body toe in the spa was a little tricky. You see, there was one man already IN the spa. And although I’ve got enough hair on my head to populate a small country of hairless people, he had enough hair on his back to populate a small PLANET.
I shuddered, but realized that I was standing on the pool deck in my MiracleSuit (which doesn’t REALLY work miracles, or the person who invented it would have achieved sainthood already, and if there was a Patron Saint of Swimsuits, I’m sure I’d have heard about it by now being the good Catholic girl that I am try to be), so there was really no going back.
I took off my glasses. Great. Now I can’t SEE the hairs floating my way to deflect them. But if I wear my glasses, they’ll fog up like the windows in the back seat of a teenager’s late model SUV. So I decide that “glasses off” is the only way to go. At least that way I won’t look ridiculous. [Note to self: eye surgery has just skyrocketed up the priority list]. [And secondary note to self: WHY do you care if the man with the back hair supply for alien planets thinks if you look ridiculous???]
I eased myself into the spa. And the water did feel amazing. I took one whiff and knew that anything that coming out of that pool of water was definitely chlorinated to death. I could relax.
After my prescribed 15 minutes of avoiding floating back hair relaxing hot water, I decided that I’d better get ready to pick up Thing One. Lord knows that the ONE day I’m late to get him will be the first day in recorded history that they’ll finish ninja class on time, right?
I drip my way blindly out of the water and head for the women’s locker room. But, I don’t have my damn glasses on and almost stumble into the men’s locker room. Thank God for Braille signage.
Once inside the correct locker room, I proceeded to try to change from wet swimsuit to dry clothes quickly. I had planned on a shower to rinse away someone else’s excess back hair, but decided that I couldn’t let my feet touch the bare floor longer than absolutely necessary and since I had no flip flops (the neurotic beast ATE my most recent pair), I had to kind of hop around (as if hopping reduces contact with nasty germs like the one that causes athlete’s foot, right?) and try to dry and get myself into clothes again. I think I got a more intense workout trying to get dressed than I did C25K-ing.
As I sat down to put on my amazingly comfortable running shoes, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I glanced over and saw a cute chubby girl in a coral t-shirt and grey sweats. She had the same running shoes as me. I started to smile (as in…Hey! Great choice in running shoes!).
And then I stopped in my tracks.
She WAS me (in the mirror). I’m that chubby girl. And I had a moment of overwhelming “holy-crap-that’s-really-me” feeling. Then I realized:
Yeah, sister, that may be me, but not for long.
As long as someone can answer me this: Where do you buy flip flops in January?