I stopped having fun immediately. There had to be some mistake. My weight was in reasonable control, at least according to my bathroom scale, which always gives me good reviews. And I’ve been strict on my diet, if you don’t count the margaritas.
Thirty-one percent body fat?
How did that happen? And when?
I considered the implications. A third of me was fat. I wondered if it was the top third or the bottom. Answer: It’s the middle, stupid.
I couldn’t believe it. How can you be not-that-overweight and have thirty-one percent body fat?
I’m guessing this is because of my age, which is really unfair. Why do we have to pay so high a price for sneaking a piece of chocolate now and then? The punishment doesn’t fit the crime. I was so bummed that if I’d been home, I would have gone straight to the refrigerator.
But I was at the gym, so I lifted every weight the trainer gave me. I yanked every rope, flopped around on every beach ball, and curled muscles I’d sooner have left straight. I did everything but claw my thighs off in public.
And, of course, I signed up in for ten more sessions, to begin after the free ones ended. I didn’t care what it cost. If I could have done all ten sessions on the spot, I would have done that, too.
Of course, you know what happened next.
The next day I could barely walk, sit, or drive. It hurt to laugh and breathe. It did not hurt to eat. It never hurts to eat. Not until later.
I’m thinking that maybe I should have taken the extra five IQ points.
Then I could figure out how to lose five pounds without going to the gym.