Confessions of an Evil Gym Bunny

I do not believe in New Year’s Resolutions, and thank goodness it seems like not many people in this town do either. The great onslaught of new gym-goers with crashing blood sugar have not appeared in the post-holiday season. Or maybe they have traditional jobs keeping them away during my 8:30-10:30 time slot.

Whatever the reason, you’ll hear no complaints here. While the media constantly reports on obesity and I think people benefit from physical activity, I prefer not to fight over the 12 bikes in Spinning class and 13 stations in circuit training.

But I’d fight if I had to. After all, exercise is one of the only things keeping me out of the funny farm at this point. We have been waiting for company paperwork critical to house-buying plans in Edmonton for two months. We have had to deal with at least a half dozen people in a half dozen locations in this bureaucratic nightmare. All for one f*&%ing letter.

So yes, I need my spinning. And my circuit training. And my pump n’ flex (which is no girly weight-lifting class, by the way. Doug couldn’t walk for several days afterward). And my yoga. These are the things that allow me to burn off my ‘crazy’ energy so I don’t lash out at people in the grocery store line whose only fault is they haven’t memorized produce ID #’s (bananas are 4011! 4011!!!).

But then I hear my yoga instructor’s voice in my head “inhale gently,” and my spinning teacher’s voice “push it out” and I remember that the woman holding the bananas with two squalling toddlers is probably at the end of her rope too. And being in Wyoming she’s probably got a gun in her diaper bag. So I hold my tongue and just chant my ancient mantra quietly on the inhale and exhale: chill…out…chill…out…chill…out

And patiently await my next mind-saving butt kicking.

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