Okay, so yesterday I went to the gym after work. I have been trying to go at least twice a week now that I'm back at work and its been 11 weeks since giving birth. No more excuses, time to get back in shape and back in the jeans! (which is another weird story, because ONE pair of my stretch size 4 jeans fit, and all the rest of my jeans, even up to a size 8, don't. Explain THAT one???) And I'm totally bummed because during my pregnancy, they cancelled my kickboxing class! =(
Working out now is hard. Not physically, really, I'm starting to get back in shape enough to not huff and puff on the treadmill too badly, but emotionally. Apparently I'm not nearly as self-centered after having Audrey as I thought I might be. I don't want to go to the gym, I want to be with HER. Going back to work was hard, even though she stays with either her Nana or her Daddy, but...its not ME. I'm sure other working moms understand that. Regardless, I refuse to let these extra lbs camp out for longer than a few more months. Therefore, back to the gym I go.
So I'm at the gym yesterday, totally not wanting to be because I know if I wasn't there, I could be picking up Little Miss from her Nana's house. But I'm there, and had just changed clothes in the locker room and started up the stairs to the cardio level when...I saw it. One good treadmill left (the ones with the fans attached and the book holder) and DUM DUM DUMMMM....a man heading straight for it. I picked up my pace up the stairs, determined to beat him, book, towel, cell phone, and water bottle in hand...and completely busted it. One minute I was clippin' up in the stairs, the next I'm grabbing onto the railing for dear life as I land stomach down.
Fortunately, the stairs were carpeted. Unfortunately, I think every person in the gym saw me. Multiple people ran over. "ARE YOU OKAY?" Don't help me up, just gawk, yes. Thanks. I've got it. Another man, ironically, the one who I'd been secretly racing for the treadmill, stops and smiles and says "I've done that before too."
Okay buddy, just because you're being nice doesn't mean you're getting the treadmill. I've EARNED it.
I laugh it off, assure everyone I'm fine, and, redder than the trim on my shirt, take my place on my treadmill (and glare as Nice Man carries on toward the bicycles. Turns out we weren't racing afterall)
About that time I realize my knee hurts. Part carpet burn, part bruise. I walk anyway, cranking the treadmill up to speed to run off my embarassment.
Then, my cell phone flies across the room.
Yes, flies. I didn't drop it. Either I had an uncontrollable, random arm spasm and threw it, or it was too embarassed to be seen with me, and leaped. I still don't know. I just watched it fly three treadmills down and nearly nail a guy in the back of the leg as he's reaching for a paper towel on the stand.
So I have to get off the treadmill and excuse myself while crawling around his feet to get my phone.
Someone, PLEASE give me a gold star for getting back on the machine and finishing my work out, and not going home to pick up my baby and record how many colors of red I could turn. Please, someone? Anyone? =)