Bridezilla on Steroids
There’s a breed of gym-goer that I never noticed until I became one: The Bride-to-Be.
You can spot these women from a mile away. They go through a natural progression in each visit to the gym. Around 90% of the time, they will be found on a cardio machine of some sort, but usually the elliptical. Why, you ask? Because during this heart-pumping exercise, the left hand can be perched permanently on the frame of the machine, elegantly displaying the monster ring on her dainty finger.
These women usually wear yoga pants and fashionable tank tops over their snazzy sports bra that is color-coordinated with the rest of her outfit, and casually exposed where her tank top doesn’t quite cover it. Her hair is almost perfectly coiffed into a tight, bouncy ponytail. But these things are merely coincidental. The true identity of The Bride-to-Be lies in her eyes. If you look deep into her eyes, you can see the shape of her wedding dress burned into her retinas. As she powers through her 45-minute commitment to the elliptical, she thinks only of the lifelong commitment she will make wearing THAT dress. She sees all the pictures that will be taken of her in THAT dress. Of the little girls who will envy her wearing THAT dress. And if even the slightest bit of fat hangs out and over the intricate lace pattern of the bodice, she will just DIE.
So she ups the resistance to 15, and moves her legs as fast as they can possibly stand, the sweat shimmering on her fake-bake arms. It isn’t enough until she can’t quite breathe anymore, and she sees spots in front of her vision. The more it hurts, the better the dress will fit in the end. As soon as she vacates the cardio machines, she stops in the women’s area to lift tiny weights at 1000 repetitions to carefully sculpt her upper body into the long, lean muscles of a dancer. All the while, her iPod is strapped to her arm, transmitting the wedding march into her ears, keeping her ever-mindful of her all-consuming goal. (At least, that’s what I’d like to think she’s listening to.)
And when she’s about to leave, you see her casually saunter over to the scales, take a deep breath and step on, her heart in her throat. If she could vomit right now, she would, just to watch the last .2 pounds fall away.
You can spot these women from a mile away. They go through a natural progression in each visit to the gym. Around 90% of the time, they will be found on a cardio machine of some sort, but usually the elliptical. Why, you ask? Because during this heart-pumping exercise, the left hand can be perched permanently on the frame of the machine, elegantly displaying the monster ring on her dainty finger.
These women usually wear yoga pants and fashionable tank tops over their snazzy sports bra that is color-coordinated with the rest of her outfit, and casually exposed where her tank top doesn’t quite cover it. Her hair is almost perfectly coiffed into a tight, bouncy ponytail. But these things are merely coincidental. The true identity of The Bride-to-Be lies in her eyes. If you look deep into her eyes, you can see the shape of her wedding dress burned into her retinas. As she powers through her 45-minute commitment to the elliptical, she thinks only of the lifelong commitment she will make wearing THAT dress. She sees all the pictures that will be taken of her in THAT dress. Of the little girls who will envy her wearing THAT dress. And if even the slightest bit of fat hangs out and over the intricate lace pattern of the bodice, she will just DIE.
So she ups the resistance to 15, and moves her legs as fast as they can possibly stand, the sweat shimmering on her fake-bake arms. It isn’t enough until she can’t quite breathe anymore, and she sees spots in front of her vision. The more it hurts, the better the dress will fit in the end. As soon as she vacates the cardio machines, she stops in the women’s area to lift tiny weights at 1000 repetitions to carefully sculpt her upper body into the long, lean muscles of a dancer. All the while, her iPod is strapped to her arm, transmitting the wedding march into her ears, keeping her ever-mindful of her all-consuming goal. (At least, that’s what I’d like to think she’s listening to.)
And when she’s about to leave, you see her casually saunter over to the scales, take a deep breath and step on, her heart in her throat. If she could vomit right now, she would, just to watch the last .2 pounds fall away.