The Geriatric Gym Rat

So:  I joined a gym.  Which seemed like an awesome idea while PVT was gone:  how else were we all going to entertain ourselves?  After a whole week and a day had elapsed before I returned, however, I figured I had better show up to see if this whole idea was just a half-brained shenanigan.  So I brought Colette, Sylvie and Margaux to the gym for my complimentary initial meeting with a personal trainer, who would assess my level of fitness, body fat(ness), and discuss with me my "goals."

My goals?  My goals.  A)  To have a place to go when I'm losing my freaking mind; B) ?.  So I dropped Colette and Sylvie off to frolic together at the childcare, and dropped - gulp, gulp - Margaux off too, who was contentedly sleeping in her car seat.  The nursery ladies gave me a pager, which I held with a death grip.  Then my designated trainer gave me a series of treadmill tests, had me step on a fancy fat-divining scale, and had me do some stretching.  Then she gave me my results:  I had the body fat of an 18 year old (when I reported this quite boastfully to PVT - as evidence of how lucky he is - he asked, "What KIND of 18 year old?  A hot one or a fat one?"), the lung capacity of a - well, 38 year old (but as the trainer said, I just had a baby.  Gimme a break already), and the flexibility of a - well, MUCH older person.  So I don't know what all of that says.

After this assessment, I sprinted back to the nursery, where Margaux was screaming her brains out.  AAHH!  This is my easy, placid baby?  Apparently the ladies had been trying to page me, but my pager wasn't going off, and they had sent a girl to come find me.  Oh, Margaux!  But, oh yay - because while I like the idea of belonging to a gym, I am not thrilled about actually working out.  Yes, I want to lose the last of the baby weight, but I am willing to wait it out and do it the lazy way - continued operation of Jill's dairy farm - than actually doing something toning and productive. 

And oh how it stresses me out to leave little babies!  I cannot believe - well, I guess I can because I HAD to - that while I was working I left my two eldest children at three months old two days per week for EIGHT hours at a time.  This KILLS me to think about.  But really, for Margaux:  an hour once or twice per week - surely this won't scar her for life, and if it gives me something to do besides clean the house and change diapers, and gives me other people to see besides the under-11 set, then surely this can't be a BAD thing.  Right?  Right?

So we tried again the other day; I decided to attempt a yoga class to improve the lack of flexibility that was "aging" me so drastically.  This time Margaux was protesting and snuffling; I told the lovely nursery lady I didn't want her to suffer, so to page me if she was upset.  Then I ran up to yoga, late, shuffled into the back of the dark, incense-filled studio, and because I didn't see any mats, grabbed a hand towel.  The woman in front of me looked at me like I was bonkers.  And then after 20 minutes of fretful Hatha yoga, I couldn't take it anymore, snuck out of the studio with my  stupid hand towel, and raced back to the nursery.

Where Margaux was peacefully sleeping. 

Aaargh.

And then, of course, there is gym attire.   Did you know you can't wear your 18 year old ratty college t shirt and running shorts you've had since the nineties?  Nooo.   You need form fitting tanks and shape-enhancing yoga pants - preferably from lululemon.  So I've ordered myself some lovely "active" wear from Nordstrom.

Maybe if I look the part, I will eventually FEEL the part as well.  And be able to stay for at least HALF a class.