In January, I resolved to go to the gym five days a week. No, it wasn’t a New Year’s resolution. I’d like to think I’m too unconventional for that sort of thing, thank you (besides, I didn't begin on January 1st). At the start, I weighed 197 pounds. As the days went by, I was excited to see the pounds fly off. I reduced my weight almost daily. Then my body caught on to the game. I hit a plateau at 192 pounds. Frustrated, I changed my workout to see if I could force the weight loss to begin again. And it worked. My weight dropped to 187 last week. And then I weighed this morning. 192. Really?! C’mon!!
I’m trying to convince myself that muscle weighs more than fat. I’m trying to concentrate on the benefits of all the exercise that I’m getting. But, I want results. Of course, maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that entire bag of popcorn this past Saturday. I could have done without those three spoonfuls of crunchy peanut butter on Sunday. The pizza Saturday night didn’t help. The non-light Sunday evening beer didn’t either. I’m not a monk, body. Cut me some slack!
When on the treadmill at the gym, I watch the activity on the floor. I am a people-watching addict. One of the personal trainers at the gym also works out there. I stare with amazement when he is on the treadmill. As I plod along at my 2.5 mile per hour pace, he is sprinting at 7.5 miles per hour and punching wildly at the air in front of him. He tires me just watching him.
There are some gym pluses: I see other people giving their all and making slow simple progress like I am, the attractive young women who work the front desk all know me by name since I’ve been going so frequently, I see the buffed and built men there who give me additional motivation to reach my goal.
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