So I've started going to the gym one night a week. I started complaining about my Bricker swing (the underarm fat that looks like a swinging door....) so Rachel from work offered to teach me to work out. I've posted about that once before. I think I've been going for about a month now, and parts of it are getting a little easier.
PARTS.
Last night I felt like Lucy in that I Love Lucy episode where she does the ballet? And she gets her foot stuck in the bar on the wall? That's about how much coordination I had last night. And of all things, Miss Rachel wanted to add to our routine. ADD, I tell you. She says "Oh let's move up one pound on the hand weights." Or "Oh let's do 15 reps instead of 10." And then "Oh, let's try this new thing. It will be good for your lower back." My lower back felt fine.
But the crowning moment was when we tried the stair stepper machine for the first time. That machine is evil. EVIL! Fifteen minutes she wanted me to do. And every 3 or 4, she wanted me to increase the resistance. Well by the height of it, when I was hanging onto the handles of the machine as though they were the tree branch above a cliff into which I was dangling, she said "You can do it, Bek!"
I glared at her and said, You are not my friend. She laughed. I continued: I think I might hate you. You're trying to kill me, aren't you? I'm telling my Mom. Oh wait. I can't cause I'll be dead. Well YOU tell her then.
She just said, "Well at least your mom has unlimited bereavement days." (Office joke is that I stress out about anybody dying because I only get four bereavement days.)
As I was clinging to that stupid machine for dear life during the last minute of my workout, I looked at her and said My hair is wet and I did not just wash it. This is not fun.
But alas, I survived, and we finished our workout on the treadmill - an activity I enjoyed much more than the evil stair stepper. She wanted me to get it rolling to a high speed and then start walking. I said, "Uh, I'll fall off. Maybe I'll start slow and work up to it." I think she just wanted to see me fall off the treadmill.
This had better cure the Bricker swing. That's all I'm saying.
1 hour ago
6 comments:
i hate stair steppers. i love treadmills. i hate exercise. i love cupcakes. why must i be torn?
Sarah, you make me laugh. Card making and cupcakes - what could be better?
Chocolate cupcakes. :) If I were back home again in Indiana, I'd work out with you. Actually, you could just join me. Lifting 20-lb little boys over your head repeatedly during the day has to do something good. I haven't experienced that yet, but then again, note my first comment.
I remember that my sister said babies/toddlers were a great workout. When I sit for Liam and Savannah, I do notice a marked change in energy level AND soreness the next day. Especially when they want to play that game where they sit on my ankle and I kick my leg up and down - that HURTS after while!
I never heard it called a Bricker swing. Just wings...
Bricker is a family name - but I don't know which Bricker originated that saying in our family! That's just what we always called it. LOL.
When I was little, I called it "swinging doors" because it reminded me of the doors on our choir loft at church. They were short little doors (below waist level) that ran flush with the rail in front of the choir loft. When people came in and out of the choir, if they weren't careful, the doors would swing behind them. How flattering to be compared to THAT, huh? Clearly I didn't own any then.
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