Franz has really been on a roll lately.  It could be his recent hot dates to Panera with ‘cougars’ that’s giving him these boosts of confidence, but when I come into the gym, he’s bouncing off the walls, ready to murder me by way of lifting weights.  On top of that, he’s seriously on his game with making fun of, and embarrassing me.

Over the last 10 months, Franz and I have really gotten to know each other well.  We’re like some seriously dysfunctional siblings who have a weird sense of humor, and fight/laugh like an old married couple.  When we make fun of each other, we each know that it’s out of love.  I respect Franz, and some where, deep down beneath the layers and layers of muscle, he respects me too.

Now, for story time.  One day, about a month or so back, I was working out with Franz, and I was people watching the whopping three other humans in the gym.  My old lady eyes were scrunched so I could attempt to see these people clearly, and Franz noticed me looking at them.  One of these said human beings, was of the male species.  Franz turned to me and said, ‘Oh, is that your type?’

‘Huh?’ I asked.

‘I see you staring at him… is that your type of guy?’

I replied with one of my witty remarks ‘Yep, I’m totally into a little bit of dad bod‘.

‘Well, he’s not a Dad… he’s like 22. Like, you could be his mom.’

So after that day, when Franz made me feel like an elderly female creep, I never looked into the poor ‘dad-bod-child’s eyes again.  Until I walked into the gym, yesterday.

Me.  Franz.  Dad-Bod-Child.  We are the only people in the gym.  I walk in, set my phone down, and take my jacket off.  Franz walks up to me, and without skipping a beat says, ‘I told ‘Dad-Bod-Child’ that you thought he was cute’.

Ummm….  wut.

I proceeded to scream at him, grab his chest and push him backwards.  WTF.  Why??

  1. Married.
  2. I’m old.
  3. Never.Ever.Said.He.Was.Cute.
  4. WHY?!

This set the stage for the rest of the work out.  I was furiously trying to shut him up, and also gather information at the same time.  I wanted to know why the hell he thought that was a good thing to tell this poor child that I thought he was cute, but I also didn’t want to hear him talk about it any more.  It was a weird place for me to be, in my head.

At the end of my work out, while I was pulling 75 pounds back in rows, is when Franz decided he should finish telling me about the conversation they had.

‘But wait!! You didn’t let me tell you about what he said, when I told him that you thought he was cute!’

‘Because I never ever ever said he was cute, and I really do not care, at all!’

‘Ok, shut up.  You definitely said he was cute.  Anyways, I told him you thought he was cute, and then I told him that you were super old, and he said, ‘Well, not really… I mean, I am 22′.’

Ok, so not only do I have a lying trainer who tells ‘Dad-Bod-Child’ that I think he’s cute, but then I have ‘Dad-Bod-Child’ who thinks that, at 22, he could …I don’t even know… ‘get with’ a 35 year old??

I think these Panera ‘cougar’ dates are really getting to Franz’s head.


The Clap

Our bodies make noises.  If you pretend yours doesn’t, then you’re just fooling yourself.  Not only do our bodies make noises, but we aren’t the only ones who hear them.

When my knees crack, the snaps can be heard from across the room by the deaf.  When my ankles pop, it sounds like the creaks from an old wooden chair.  I mean, I KNOW that when I move, everyone hears it.  Let’s not forget that I moan and groan when I stand up and sit down, so much so, that the baby I nanny has picked up the habit to moan and groan when he stands up and sits down.

So, it may surprise you that in my twisted sense of reality, I really figured that NO ONE heard… the clap.

It’s no secret that when you lose weight, you don’t just magically lose all of the skin that you spent years stretching out.  Nope, that shit stays with you.  Like a badge of honor, or a fat tax, or something.

Well, as I lose my padding, I gain sag.  Lately, I have noticed that my body has a new noise.  It claps.  Like, when I have my arm up, and I let it down real fast.  MY BODY CLAPS FOR ME.  I actually sent this as a text to my two girlfriends from High School.  I told them that it was super nice of my body to give me a round of applause when I’m up walking around.  Still, I thought I was the only one who could hear it.

I wasn’t.

So, it’s a Thursday, and I’m at the gym.  I’m actually in an absolutely terrible mood.  Like, my normal ‘funny ha-ha I’m going to kill you’ jokes to my trainer, had a much more authentic vibe on this particular day, if you know what I’m saying.  Honestly, I was in no mood to joke.  No mood to play around.  I was angry with the work out.  I was angry with my lack of ability.  I was angry with the Plyo Box (i.e.: Devil Box).

I’m doing step ups, and struggling with them.  I have three sets of ten step ups, per leg.  I’m on my last set of 10 for my last leg, and I raise my arms to catch my balance.  As I step back down to the ground, my arms come down, and…


My trainer starts to laugh a little, and in a quick moment, he stops.  I think he sucked that shit back inside, in fear of actually being slapped across his face. (full disclosure: I wouldn’t ever hit him, no matter how mad I was… I’m really not a violent, mean person.  I just play one, at the gym.)

I am physically dying.  I’m trying to catch my breath. I’m trying to not die.  I’m trying not to laugh, because well… that shit was funny.

At that moment, I remember what I said to my friends.  My body was clapping for me.  I was actually receiving a round of applause from my body, for making it through my work out.  I’ll take it.



Prove It.

I’m finding it difficult to find a way to show people how hard I am working out.  Usually, I can talk about my wuns, or post pictures of my MapMyWalk app.  Now that I’m going to the gym, I’m not really taking pictures, and the freaking MapMyWalk app doesn’t track when your on a stationary piece of equipment.  *Sigh*

So, I have to resort to telling you that I am going, and you will JUST HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!

Today I completed my 6th Personal Training session with my trainer, Ben.  Which, if you were paying attention, would mean that I have 84 sessions left.  EIGHTY-FOUR PREPAID SESSIONS…

Ben likes to beat me up.  Which I guess is a good thing from a trainers point of view.  However, from my point of view, it hurts.  Physically, hurts.  The day of, I wobble out of the gym, lucky to get to my car without toppling to the ground, and the days to follow I am so sore I can’t quite move my body, the way one should be able to.

Instead of boring you with all the fact of how my workouts go, and how I feel, I’ll tell you a little story that will make you smile.

I warned Ben, before I started, that I would push myself, and I probably wouldn’t tell him that I was hurting.  I also warned him that I would make ridiculous faces.  I wasn’t kidding.  Every time I pick up a dumbbell, sit on the Leg Extension machine, lift a Combat Rope, or step up onto a Plyo Box, I wince.  Ben likes to say that it looks like he is killing me.  Like I’m dying.  Today he told me that it looked I was going to cry, because he killed my dog.  Well, lucky for you Ben, I don’t have a dog.  I just have incredible facial expressions, and a clear low tolerance for….the gym.

IMG_5264It ain’t pretty, but this is what I looked like when I left the gym today.  Sweat around my neck and all.

Hello, Bandwagon? Did You Forget Me?

No, seriously…. I think I missed my ride.

Ugh. I stopped. I stopped wunning, and I stopped moving, and I stopped making time for myself. How quickly we can just forget how amazing we felt when we did something good for our bodies, and even more quickly, go back to the ‘old’ routine.

For those who don’t know, I work in Providence, and I live in Framingham. That’s an hour and ten minutes commute each way. That’s 53 miles, EACH WAY. That also means that along with my 8+ hours of work, I also have 2 hours and change of a commute…which means I don’t have a hell of a lot of time to do anything for myself. Or, at least that’s what I tell myself. I knew when taking this job, that I would limit my time, and have to force myself to create a new routine, and way to do things. And please, don’t get me wrong. I’m very excited to be there, and to learn so much about myself, and the business, and everything that comes with being a manager… but it’s a tough transition.

So, here’s the new plan:

1. Don’t give up.

2. No excuses.

3. Give a shit about myself.

So, starting this week, even though I’ll be in Connecticut for a training, I WILL be wunning. I’ll pack my bright pink sneakers, my favorite pants from Athleta, and my “It’s not sweat, it’s sparkle” tank, and I’ll show the rest of the managers of the company, that I give a shit about myself. I don’t care how tired I am, how bad my back hurts, or what time it is… I’m wunning.

Do me a favor, and ask me how it went, OK?


BTW- for those looking for a ridiculous story about how nonathletic I really am, here it is: Paint the picture for yourself. I’m miniature golfing. I hit the ball, it rolls up the course and DIRECTLY over and past the hole. I run up, excited to rub it in my opponents faces, that I was CLOSE to a hole in one, and when I get to the top, I trip on rocks and fall…on my back. You’re welcome.

And if your wondering? No one came to my aid. No one.