So, I'm back at the YMCA. This time, I'm not bobbing around in the zero approach pool with swim diapered kids or suffocating in the sauna-like atmosphere of the indoor pool in late July watching swim lessons while 15 months pregnant. No, this time, I'm putting myself first, trying to run off the baby weight while learning the intricacies of locker room etiquette from the retirees who seem to have established - and rigorously enforce - those rules. At this point, I'm mostly failing on all levels. Mainly because I don't have time to wait my turn for the curtained showers (the preschool clock is ticking), and because of all the cookie variations that are available to me.
I imagine the exercise helps, but I believe I expend more energy getting to the gym than any cardio that actually happens on the proverbial treadmill. I'm also finding that while the 2 hour per Diem/who cares how many kids you have/in-house daycare is worth the gym membership alone, I'd rather sit at the Y Cafe with my friends - kid free - than don Lycra and "feel the burn."
The other day I learned, while naked in the open showers and scrubbing away with my new travel size carrot-flavored shampoo (for avid gymrats), that 38 is actually the old 12. A superfit thirty-something mom (who - in a fair world - would have kids no younger than 10), didn't have her shower essentials. I, per subtle instruction from the gym grannies, offered up my gymrat shampoo. This exchange alone required me to talk to another person while naked. And when Superfit Mom accepted my offer, I was then required to traverse across the shower area for the hand off. All the while aware that someone other than my husband could now fully observe the muffin top that has become an impressive layer cake.
Ugg. I'm back. Lamenting a flat chest, butt zits, or whatever other body image issue that was causing me to pine for the curtained showers in the mid '80s. Ugg again. At this point, aren't I significantly closer to that red hat and purple clothing that serve as signs of self acceptance? Haven't the years of ladder climbing, successes, tears, love and labor moved my little pink car closer to a win in the "Game of Life?" The answer appears to be a quiet, but persistent voice in my head mouthing, "no."
Damn. I thought maybe the carrot shampoo would do the trick this time.