(Re)Losing My Virgymnity

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Loss.  Not so much fun.  No one ever pulls you aside and says, "I'm so happy!  I lost my car keys!" or "Drinks are on me, guys - I finally lost that promotion I've been working at."

There are however, a few things in life we look forward to losing.  Weight.  Idiot boyfriends.  Our virginity.

Unfortunately, those things we actually enjoy losing have a funny way of creeping back into our lives.  We could start out on top of the world: trim, independent women with a few notches on our trendy reversible belts, and before we know it, our jeans are digging into our bellies as we reach across the guy-who-broke-my-heart-and-I-swore-I-would-never-speak-to-again to get the last handful of candy because, let's face it, the only kisses we're getting tonight are from our friend Mr. Hershey.

You know you've been there.

So, too, went the sad story of my fitness routine.  I had a pretty good one going for  a while - Sous Chef and I would strap on our iPods and head to the gym three days a week.  Then I hurt my back, and I couldn't go for a while.  Then I started a new job.  Then it was a Tuesday.  Then it was Thanksgiving.  Then it was too cold.  Then I just plain didn't feel like it.  I didn't want to deal with the people, the sweaty equipment, the germs, the smells.

I was blocked.  In a major way.  So of course I thought and thought and thought and thought about it.  Because overthinking things always works.

Eventually, I felt just cruddy enough for just long enough to convince myself to trudge over there.  I was halfway through typing the address into Google Maps when I remembered that the gym was across the street.  I looked up the door code (since the code I had was from back before we passed the turkey).  I was all set - I'd put on my rowing sleeves (basically long johns, though slightly more acceptable to wear in public), grabbed my iPod, and headed out the door.

It wasn't until I was swiping my membership card at the front desk that I realized that I didn't have a shirt on.

At least, not my workout shirt - you know, the big loose one that covers up all my wobbly bits.  In my rush to leave the house before I could change my mind, I had put on my skin-tight, wobbly-bit showcasing rowing sleeves, but not my actual workout shirt.  Lovely.

Then there were no treadmills.  None.  I honestly think that only day more crowded than that particular Saturday morning must be the first Saturday morning after New Year's.  It was loud and smelly and sweaty and crowded.  Everything I had been dreading.  Plus my sleeves, designed to keep rowers warm on a chilly morning on the river, made me look and feel like a beached whale being roasted over a spit of flaming-hot coals.  And I was only stretching at this point.

Thankfully, I had my blessed iPod with me.

(wait for it…)

It was dead.

At that point, I looked over and gave Sous Chef the same face I give the TV when that ad for the ASPCA comes on with the sad puppies in cages and three-legged bald cats - the "this is just so sad and terrible" look.  He looked back at me and said, "Time to just get angry and do it."

So I did.

Weight.  Idiot boyfriends.  Virginity.  Gym avoidance.  Losing them can be difficult, emotional journeys, but in the end, it's well worth the effort, don't you think?

Live well.

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