I DON’T GLOW…
You know the phrase “Horses sweat, men perspire, ladies glow”? Well I must be a freaking Clydesdale. Never in my life have I glowed.
I don’t participate in group exercise for this very reason. Why, oh why would I want more than a dozen people at a time to see the sweat stains that evolve in ever-increasing circles from my armpits – sometimes ending up at my waist? Not to mention under my breasts and down my back.
I ride the stationary bikes. They are in the darkest corner of the Y where no one ever turns on the lights. (This is good for me, because the well-lit part of the Y has lots of ceiling fans that create a near-strobe effect – which has a tendency to throw those susceptible to migraines into that fugue-like aura state.) In the dark recesses of the stationary bikes cavern, I climb onto a recumbent cycle. I set up my program (Fitness Level 2) – the slightly hilly one – and I enter a starting level of 6 and usually a time of 45 minutes. I then prop the Android Tablet onto the control panel, plug in my headphones and begin to pedal my ass off – or at least that’s the theory. I watch tv shows upon the tablet – sometimes Grey’s Anatomy, sometimes Buffy – this week it’s the 2nd season of Downton Abbey (another tasty bit of television). Watching these shows almost distracts me from the fact that I am near death and sweating like a Clydesdale.
After I warm up, at five minute intervals I change my pedal level. I vacillate between 8 and 11 – if I don’t feel like I’m really going to die, I might go up to 12. If I were to attempt this without a tv show to distract me – I don’t think I could manage it. Books are okay, but they don’t do the same job as a visual stimulus. It’s all about misdirection. Instead of giving in to the urge to vomit/pass out, I pay attention to a neuro surgeon/vampire/head housekeeper. Pretty costumes, drama, camp – it’s all misdirection. When my time is up I’m dripping with sweat, my red hair looks black for its moisture and I’m panting like a rabid dog – but I HAVE survived!!!
After I’ve finished, I then make the trek through the well-lit part of the exercise centre. My t-shirt usually drenched to a deeper shade of whatever colour it started out as. My flushed cheeks giving off that ‘just slapped’ Fifth’s Disease vibe. And my ass… Yes, my ass – I somehow manage to consistently have a large circular wet spot on my black yoga capris – in the middle of which is a completely dry heart shape. That’s what I try to leave people with as I depart the Y. I look at it as my gift to the masses. The non-Clydesdale people who don’t look like they’re verging on a heart attack as they spend their 1/2 hour on the stairmaster. I brighten everyone’s day – with that dry heart on my ass.