Why does it feel like my workout clothes went through the dryer ten times on the highest heat?

What happened? I have a new car and live on the second floor, so whose funny idea was it to give me a spare tire and a set of sandbags for a wedding gift? I am like a body- hoarder. Holding onto every inch knowing I can’t take on anymore, but do anyway.

And now here I stand sleepy-eyed at my new “personal training” gym with the “Boy I Love” next to me watching little miss perfect pony tail demonstrate a box jump with a pull up.

“So,” she says as she lightly hops on the box, like a delicate fairy and pulls herself up in one swift movement like an Olympic gymnast, “this is how you’re going to do it.”

I look across at myself in the mirror and notice my socks are mismatched, my shirt is inside out and my broken shoe lace is broken again. I start to wiggle my stubbed toe to see if it was ready to “box-jump”, and that is when I realize I have a small hole in my shoe.

Meanwhile, with her eyes dressed in mascara and her jiggle-free body wrapped in something she borrowed from a manikin in a shop-window, little miss ponytail, appeared to be awake well before my alarm went off.

“Everybody down on the floor and let’s do some push ups,” I hear ponytail command.

I drop to the floor and as I start to push up my glasses fall off my face. Nothing screams “world-class” athlete like a pair of black rimmed glasses sliding down your nose.

“Why didn’t you wear your contacts?” the BIL asks in between reps.

“Probably the same reason why I don’t have on matching socks,” I say out of breath.

Push-ups and pull-ups are BIL’s time to shine. He’s got enough muscle stored up from his glory days, that even if he wants to be fat he couldn’t. The worst that can happen to his brick-house body, is he might get a little belly or some under the chin gobble, gobble (I call it his “goo goo”.) His cure for the gobble, gobble is a week or two of no bacon or ice cream matched with a few times at the gym. However, I don’t have those same glory days on my resume, therefore, the junk stays in my trunk a little while longer.

“Look at that babe, I lost three pounds,” he’ll say after our first workout.

I’m thinking of wrapping myself in plastic wrap next time we go to the gym so I can have the same results. I can just imagine myself with my broken laces and holy shoe, jumping around as the sweat collects in the plastic wrap around my body causing it to slip out of my shorts.

“Is that plastic coming out of your shorts?” pony tail would ask.

I mean what would I say? I can’t think of any reasons for wearing saran wrap, that wouldn’t make me sound a little crazy.

Instead, here I am at 6:12 a.m. with no saran wrap, struggling to jump up onto a box, two inches off the ground.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Try to land softer,” ponytail instructed. “Absorb the jump with your knees.”

Thud, thud, thud,” my loud jumping feet responded as my glasses slip off my face onto the ground.

“Opps, here ya go,” she said picking up my spectacles and handing them to me. “Oh and be careful, your shoelace is broken.”

Email me at jen@jenslife.com