I’m 4 minutes into a jog on the treadmill and I’ve only burned 47 calories.
You know what that is? That’s two peanuts, a raisin and an m&m.
I probably had 14 handfuls of that combo this week, so you do the math.
It’s going to be a long work out.
Because misery loves company, I will become friends with the
motivation fitness model on the treadmill next to me.
Except, she doesn’t look miserable.
She is happily sprinting.
In her bra.
Not a sports bra, but a real bra.
I quickly think, “good for her! A sports bra doesn’t show off an 8 pack, but a real bra does! That’s just the inspiration I need to work out a bit harder today! Thanks God.”
I have the burning desire to ask her how to get all 8 abs, even though at this point, it would take 2 bouts of agressive food poisoning for me to see the pre-existing 6.
As I turn to tap her on the arm, all of my senses are immediately engaged by a hybrid of scents.
I also notice how her arm shines “bright like a diamond” –leading to a theory:
While she was at Victoria’s Secret, choosing which bra looked best with her spandex capris, she must have fallen victim to Victoria’s REAL secret- her business plan!
“Why not buy 17 lotions and sprays? Mix and match! Buy them all!!”
I think she did.
Did I even re-apply my deodorant before I got here?
When did I last upgrade my workout gear?
You see, I’m wearing a chest-flattening sports bra under a 2008 KU Basketball t-shirt.
But I recognize the obvious:
Nothing says Lululemon like a giant Jayhawk on a cut-it-yourself sleeveless t-shirt (from 7 years ago).
She carefully removes her headphones, as to not mess up her ponytail, makes sure the sweat hasn’t compromised the glue of her eyelashes, looks at me and sweetly says, “yes?”
(I already feel like we’ve known each other for years.)
I tell her how her body is motivating me to run faster and I need to know her secret to an 8 pack.
She’s flattered and tells me all about her diet (everything in moderation), exercise habits (errrrryday) and the secrets to burning belly fat.
She does this with the fervor of a six year old recounting what Santa brought him for Christmas.
But because she too knows that misery loves company,
she pulls on a thin layer of skin attached to her lower left ab and says, “I didn’t know I could ever have fat here. Yet, when I cut carbs for 3 days, it all goes away.”
I wanted to connect with my new
have-no-idea-what-your-name-is bestie, so I think about showing her my left ab,
but it’s currently hiding under “winter 2014.”
She’s so inspired by my gumption to talk with perfection that she decides to kick up her fitness advice, saying “here, try this!”
Resetting my treadmill; she ups my jog to now sprint at 11mph during 2 minute intervals.
When she sees the fear in my face as I straddle the racing belt below, she takes a mental note of my reluctance to hop back on and calmly says, “you can start at 8.5 if you want. That’s what most models are told to do…or you can do your own thing.”
I now secretly wish she would hop off of her treadmill and say, “great talking to you, bye,” because I do want to do “my own thing.“
But when I look over, she is only 13 minutes into her fat burn.
And judging by her body, she has at least 77 minutes to go.
I shamefully decrease my speed from her 11 to my ambitious 8.2 and remind myself that stranger danger is real.