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Chick Wit:
Gym Dandy
Lisa Scottoline As I get older, I'm figuring out that the reason people talk about their ailments is that they're sharing useful medical information. At least, this is the rationalization that works best for me, because while conversations about cholesterol and lower back pain used to bore me to tears, now all I want to talk about is cholesterol and lower back pain. In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that I don't have lower back pain, but I hope to someday, so I can be like everybody else and join the national conversation. I do, however, have high cholesterol, which is why I'm on Lipitor, and I'd be happy to tell you about that, should you ask. In the meantime, kindly permit this column on a different vaguely medical subject. Here's what happened. Daughter Francesca came home from college and suggested that we join a gym, which is exactly the problem with educating your child. They get dangerous new ideas. Be forewarned. But I went along with it, thinking it would be fun. Now, you should know that I'm no slouch in the physical department. I walk the dogs two miles a day, ride Buddy the Pony twice a week, and swear by the South Beach Diet. To be honest, I thought I had maybe five pounds to lose. By the way, you may have heard about that study in which women were asked if they'd rather lose five pounds or gain five IQ points. You know which they chose? The five pounds. I would, too. In fact, I would kill to lose five pounds. I'm pretty sure it would be justifiable homicide, at least if I got a woman judge. Anyway, to get to the point, Francesca and I checked out the gyms in the neighborhood, which was fun. She asked about trainers, and I asked about defibrillators. It may not be a good idea to join a gym with your kid. You look for different things. She wants treadmills, and you want CPR. She's trying to look hot, and you're trying not to die. Long story short, we joined the gym that gave us three free sessions with a trainer, and then we went for our first session. We started by warming up on the elliptical machines, watching Judge Judy on the big TVs, and yapping away. Then we met our trainer, a manchild with biceps that could cut hard cheese. I liked him until he told us it was time for our "evaluation," which included me holding a white plastic gadget that measured my body fat. You wanna know? Thirty-one percent. WHAT? I stopped having fun immediately. There had to be some mistake. My weight was in reasonable control, at least according to my bathroom scale, which always gives me good reviews. And I've been strict on my diet, if you don't count the margaritas. Thirty-one percent body fat? How did that happen? And when? I considered the implications. A third of me was fat. I wondered if it was the top third or the bottom. Answer: It's the middle, stupid. I couldn't believe it. How can you be not-that-overweight and have thirty-one percent body fat? I'm guessing this is because of my age, which is really unfair. Why do we have to pay so high a price for sneaking a piece of chocolate now and then? The punishment doesn't fit the crime. It's downright cruel and unusual. I was so bummed that if I'd been home, I would have gone straight to the refrigerator. But I was at the gym, so Little Miss Type A went into hyperdrive. I lifted every weight the trainer gave me. I yanked every rope, flopped around on every beach ball, and curled muscles I'd sooner have left straight. I did everything but claw my thighs off in public. And, of course, I signed up in for ten more sessions, to begin after the free ones ended. I didn't care what it cost. If I could have done all ten sessions on the spot, I would have done that, too. Of course, you know what happened next. The next day I could barely walk, sit, or drive. It hurt to laugh and breathe. It did not hurt to eat. It never hurts to eat. Not until later. I'm thinking that maybe I should have taken the extra five IQ points. Then I could figure out how to lose five pounds without going to the gym. © Lisa Scottoline 2008 |