(no subject)
I went to the IMA for the SECOND time today. That's twice, t-w-o times.
It was busy, everyone sweating away a three-day weekend at 9p.m. the Tuesday after, so we got stuck on the scary lower floor of fitness madness. It's like a brightly-lit factory of clanking weights and metal rods and turning belts, all these unsynchopated panting bodies running in place after health and beauty. Like last time, I copied Kasa and found an elliptical (a thing I'd previously assumed involved some sort of spinning around, but is really just like a treadmill that moves with your feet. It's fantastic -- there's no bouncing, which should delight anyone with breasts, male or female).
Let me just mention, in case you never picked up on this, which you shouldn't if the effort functions, that I spend 90% of my time in public worried about my appearance and how much of a freak I probably look like thanks to my posture, eyebrows, pants, verbal incompetence or whatever I happen to be focused on that week. The idea of wearing pajamas and an unflattering bra, and sweating and turning pink in a room full of strangers is mostly terrifying. The only thing more terrifying is that I might run into some attractive man, or some average-looking man, or unattractive some female, or anyone who might recognize me and see me in this most unflattering state. So THANK GOD we picked machines that faced out a window onto the main entrance. Not only could everyone entering and leaving see us, but I got to spend the entire hour staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass. (So this is how I look running. This is how my clothes fall, how my hair sticks to my forehead and how my hips move in a mesmerizing figure-8. Oh, look, a tiny girl behind me in tiny shorts. And another tiny girl, and another and another. Is she even wearing pants?? And what is that man on the rowing machine looking at? Kasa's ass? Mine? How do I know what a rowing machine is? Did I make that up or is it a remnant from 8th grade P.E, something I absorbed up between attempts to look up the hispanic twins' shorts?)
Apparently I hit my 'stride' at about 8 minutes. Until then everthing feels like the flames of hell have shot through my circulatory system and my muscles are recoiling in fear. But after 8 minutes I'm fine for the rest of the hour, even setting some sort of 'course' program thing (last time I left everything at the lowest difficulty level possible, so it was like an hour-long walk, which even I can handle without thinking). Shockingly, the new NIN lasted almost the entire time, and the varying tempo made up for the mediocre lyrics. (There's a line about looking at your reflection and is that what you really want to be that touched me rightthere, but then he regressed into more predictable adolescent/middle-aged drivel). But I recommend. I also managed to not spill water all over (unlike last time) and discovered that those silver bits on the hand things measure your heart rate. I decided to see how much I could change it, and found that I could push the display to 100 pretty easily (now if only i had as much control over my heart as my heart rate -- ooooh! lame.) Anyway, an hour and 574 calories later I was still quite alive and ready to sit around at home and work on the most painful assignment in the world. Which is not this. This is procrastination.
It was busy, everyone sweating away a three-day weekend at 9p.m. the Tuesday after, so we got stuck on the scary lower floor of fitness madness. It's like a brightly-lit factory of clanking weights and metal rods and turning belts, all these unsynchopated panting bodies running in place after health and beauty. Like last time, I copied Kasa and found an elliptical (a thing I'd previously assumed involved some sort of spinning around, but is really just like a treadmill that moves with your feet. It's fantastic -- there's no bouncing, which should delight anyone with breasts, male or female).
Let me just mention, in case you never picked up on this, which you shouldn't if the effort functions, that I spend 90% of my time in public worried about my appearance and how much of a freak I probably look like thanks to my posture, eyebrows, pants, verbal incompetence or whatever I happen to be focused on that week. The idea of wearing pajamas and an unflattering bra, and sweating and turning pink in a room full of strangers is mostly terrifying. The only thing more terrifying is that I might run into some attractive man, or some average-looking man, or unattractive some female, or anyone who might recognize me and see me in this most unflattering state. So THANK GOD we picked machines that faced out a window onto the main entrance. Not only could everyone entering and leaving see us, but I got to spend the entire hour staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass. (So this is how I look running. This is how my clothes fall, how my hair sticks to my forehead and how my hips move in a mesmerizing figure-8. Oh, look, a tiny girl behind me in tiny shorts. And another tiny girl, and another and another. Is she even wearing pants?? And what is that man on the rowing machine looking at? Kasa's ass? Mine? How do I know what a rowing machine is? Did I make that up or is it a remnant from 8th grade P.E, something I absorbed up between attempts to look up the hispanic twins' shorts?)
Apparently I hit my 'stride' at about 8 minutes. Until then everthing feels like the flames of hell have shot through my circulatory system and my muscles are recoiling in fear. But after 8 minutes I'm fine for the rest of the hour, even setting some sort of 'course' program thing (last time I left everything at the lowest difficulty level possible, so it was like an hour-long walk, which even I can handle without thinking). Shockingly, the new NIN lasted almost the entire time, and the varying tempo made up for the mediocre lyrics. (There's a line about looking at your reflection and is that what you really want to be that touched me rightthere, but then he regressed into more predictable adolescent/middle-aged drivel). But I recommend. I also managed to not spill water all over (unlike last time) and discovered that those silver bits on the hand things measure your heart rate. I decided to see how much I could change it, and found that I could push the display to 100 pretty easily (now if only i had as much control over my heart as my heart rate -- ooooh! lame.) Anyway, an hour and 574 calories later I was still quite alive and ready to sit around at home and work on the most painful assignment in the world. Which is not this. This is procrastination.