As many of my mom’s readers know, I graduated college in May. From school, I opted to come home for some R&R for a couple of months (okay, I didn’t have much of a choice and my parents graciously LET me come home) before I move to Chicago, start a new job, and begin the next phase of my life.
In the meantime, Mom and I have tried to hang out with each other and log some quality time together. Our activities have included shopping for new work clothes (she hates shopping, but has been remarkably patient!), looking at furniture and stuff for my new apartment, and going out to dinner after she gets home from work. Occasionally, when Dad’s busy with something or out of town, we catch a chick flick on TV (anyone watch The Bachelorette?) or at the movies.
Our most interesting bonding experience, however, is one I least expected. You see, Mom started working out with a trainer back in October. One evening, while watching Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition, and talking about the importance of staying healthy and fit, Mom casually suggested I join her at her next workout session. “Sure,” I said, “that’ll be fun.” After all, what she can do, I certainly can do.
I clearly had no idea what I was saying….
From the moment I walked into the studio, I felt like I was in a foreign country. There were various pieces of workout equipment that I didn’t recognize or even know how to use. For example, what the heck is a “Kettle Bell”? And, what’s a “Bosu”? Well, I certainly learned. Over the next non-stop thirty minutes, I did combinations of sit-ups that KILLED my abs; jumped rope until sweat dripped off my body; tried to balance on the Bosu with little to no success; couldn’t swing the Kettle Bell to save my life; and – according to the description of the exercise – apparently climbed a mountain too!
Throughout the sets, I repeatedly glanced over at my mom. I was mortified. How did this old hag (oops, sorry Mom!) do these exercises? I seriously felt like I was going to faint the entire time. I couldn’t catch my breath and was sopping wet, while she quietly performed each exercise that was given to her – hardly glistening. Was I really this out of shape? I mean, I played basketball and soccer from elementary through high school and those ongoing practices were a piece of cake. So, how did I get to this point at the ripe old age of twenty-two? The trainer totally kicked my butt so badly that I couldn’t sit down – without pain – for three whole days. Mom showed no sympathy whatsoever.
I may be tall and thin, but clearly I’m not fit. And, I definitely eat poorly; virtually no fruit or veggies enter my mouth. I thrive on Mac & Cheese, grilled cheese sandwiches, pizza, Flamin Hot Cheetos, and French fries – menu options I perfected by the age of five. Pathetic, huh?
Over the past few weeks, the agonizing pain has lessened a bit as I’ve continued working out with Mom. I’m seriously determined to get my sh*t together. Once I move to Chicago, I’ll be forced to take care of myself and act responsibly. I’ll keep my refrigerator stocked with healthier choices. I’ll use the gym in my apartment building. I’ll walk to and from work as often as possible. I’ll become a new and better me!
I can’t help it. I’m competitive. I can’t let my mom make me look bad…