Every six months or so I am inspired to become the epitome of health. I go to the store and buy all the produce I can fit in my cart. I toss out any junk food that is laying around and I hit the treadmill like I’m running to a half price sale at Baker’s Bakery (yes mom, you taught me well). My new lease on life usually last for about four weeks, or until I get so many blisters from my ill fitting running shoes I have to stop with all the running and let myself heal so that I don’t have to have my feet amputated. Or, sometimes I am tempted away from the "all veggies all the time" diet by a vacation, or when Charlie brings home one of the 1 pound Symphony bars that his students are so fond of bribing him with (I don’t think he has ever actually had the chance to try any of them, they somehow disappear into my mouth the minute they come through the door...the whole thing, I don’t mess around).
However, my current healthy kick was inspired by fear. My neighbor, whom I secretly refer to as the "Relief Society Mafia Boss" but not to her face, because she could have me whacked, told me to start coming to her kick boxing class that she teaches at our ward building twice a week. I quickly went through every excuse I had in my arsenal: too far away (it’s about 50 feet to the edge of the parking lot from my front door), I need a babysitter (kids are welcome to play during the class), I have post traumatic stress disorder from my college kick boxing class and will start to have flashbacks of the middle aged, 300 pound woman who always stood in front of me and all of her glorious spandex and leg warmers (this one only got a mildly amused look). So I gave in. So I smiled and told R.S.M.B. that I would be delighted to come. I LOVE kick boxing.
I immediately went to the mall and bought new running shoes because I had a plan. I had 5 days before the class started, plenty of time to get into shape enough to make it through a measly hour and a half of kicking and punching at imaginary foes to the beat of eighties techno remixes. I got home and dusted off the treadmill hiding in the basement and began my new lifestyle (Oprah says that if you call it a lifestyle change instead of a diet and exercise plan it makes it easier to stick to...bite me Oprah.) I ran every day for five days before the class. I even ran for reals instead of walking most of every lap and only actually running four a minute or so like I do when I am not so serious about my target heart rate. I downloaded new upbeat songs on my IPod in order to motivate me to move faster (although I now realize that they are all angry songs, I don’t know if that says anything about me or the artists that write upbeat songs).
Here’s me running on the treadmill every morning:
ME: Mia, I am going to go downstairs for a little while to run. You watch Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch friends and I’ll be up when it is over.
MIA: I want a turn first!!! (We then go down stairs and I stand near by as Mia runs with all her might at 2 miles an hour for 5 minutes). Ok mom, your turn. Mia then stands near the treadmill in utter concentration, ready to pull out the red key that stops the machine should I suddenly have a heart attack while I do a warm up lap and watch the tiny lights that signal my progress around the track make the first curve.
MIA: Mom! I want a turn again.
ME: Not right now honey. Go upstairs and watch your show while I finish my turn and then I will come get you.
MIA: NO!!! you aren’t sharing!!! So I go ahead and let her have another few minutes at 1.3 miles an hour.
MIA: Ok mom, your turn.
I start again, just getting into the groove of Love me Dead by Ludo (awesome song if you are miserable, by the way) and I realize I don’t know where Mia is. I turn of the treadmill and wander around the corner to the storage area of the basement where I see her gleefully pulling out clumps of extra pink insulation and tossing them in the air while giggling with delight.
So, this is why exercising at home is not working out great. I think I need more chocolate in my house.