Feel the Burn

I am the best athlete ever.

I have visions of myself at the gym, running on the treadmill.  Properly using the machine.  Taking a class without laughing at myself and being asked to leave (which did happen once when I was living in Los Angeles).  There are more visions -- hot yoga.  Running in the neighborhood.  Participating in one of those mud competitions, where you get beer at the end.

Maybe I should rewrite that sentence up there.  I am the best athlete ever in my head.

I am lazy and uncoordinated.  Easily intimidated, and I don't like being around a lot of people. We have a membership at the YMCA in our neighborhood.  It's maybe 2 miles away, an easy bike ride.  During the summer, I am there every day because the boys have swim team.  It's the perfect excuse to work out, while they're swimming.  Only I don't work out.  I drop them off and go back home.  I'm really looking forward to this summer because they will be 11 and 13 and can ride their bikes to practice.

The Y offers several different classes, and sometimes I look at the schedule and think, "oh I could do that class." And a few years ago (okay, several years ago) I did take some aerobics classes.  I even got to the point where I was going twice a week and I was on time.  I stayed in the back and was a little slower than the rest of the class, but I went. And because I didn't immediately look like a super model, or my friend Shawn, I quit going.  So far, though, I haven't gone because when I go, I will see people I know and they will know the routine and will be better.  Which I know is the lamest excuse ever.  Have I mentioned I'm lazy?

There's a Y near Shane's school.  I could drop him off and go work out.  Or, since I drive the afternoon car pool, I could work out before picking them up.  I don't know anyone at that Y, so wouldn't have the lame idea of people laughing at me in my head.  My neighbors Jane and Phyllis walk every morning.  We have a nice 3-mile loop that takes about an hour.  I almost never go with them, even though Jane calls me every day to ask.

What the hell is wrong with me?  Is it really that hard to get off my ever-increasing ass off the couch and go to the gym?  Apparently.

I think I need professional help.