Pump

My one little indulgence in life (besides spending money, taking baths, reading anything I can get my hand on, and Craisins) is taking classes at the gym. I know i could just go to the gym and work out on my own, and I often do, I just find that I generally too easy on myself. If I get tired, I stop, if I stop I get fat, if I get fat, I get tired. See the vicious cycle? I know.

So every Thursday I drag my tushie out of the house after a full day of work and drive down to Gold's, where I take their one hour Pump class religiously. What is Pump, you ask? Pure torture, I answer. I don't really know why I chose that particular class, other than it's harder than pilates, and less gay than hip hop. Every Thursday I have to work myself up to going, when all I really want to do is veg out at home and eat the pizza that I talked Justin into bringing home every Thursday because obviously cooking will sap any little bit of energy that I have and make me not want to go. Plus, I need class to work off the pizza I just gorged on.

When you get to Pump, you have to set up. This includes one step with four add-on steps (I have no idea why. Everyone else does it, and I don't want to be the class weakling) one bar with weight of choice on either side (2.5, thank you very much), dumbbells, a mat and a stability ball. If you are late, which I usually am, you have to deal with the shame of a) coming and trying to set up around all the women enthusiastically warming up by doing side-kicks and lunges and b) having to be at the front of the class. Shame.

If you want to know what goes through my brain during Pump class, I'll give you a few tidbits

-(Upon walking in late) "Oh crap, I wonder if I can squeeze in the back. There might be some room near the equipment closet. Or in the equipment closet? Oh screw it, I'll go to the front."
-(Whilst doing lunges for warm up) "Wait, is this warm up? Why am I so tired? I am not going to make it. Go on without me!!! My leeeeeeeeeegs. Just amputate them now and get it over with."
-(Bicep curls while sitting on bench and sneaking looks at everyone else in the room) "Am I the skinniest here? Wait, that girl is pretty skinny. Whatever, nice fake boobs lady! Why did that girl come here in full hair and make up. Uh, not a club sweetpea. I hope you get zits."
-(During push ups while balancing on a dumbbell) "What, did this instructor train at a Nazi bootcamp? WE ARE NOT ALL AMAZON SHEMALES, LADY!! NO MORE SETS. Okay, two more sets. But I hate you. Stop telling me to push myself. NO, REALLY."
-(Through the stretching cool down) "That was such a great work out! Ooh, I can really feel my glutes/lats/calves/muscle I didn't know existed."

So basically, I torture myself for one full hour per week in anticipation of the two minutes after class where I feel like Superwoman. By the time I drive home, I've been sitting long enough for the pain to sit in, and I lay around watching Last Comic Standing and complaining to Justin that my shoulders are SO SORE. The next morning (which is today) I wake up feeling like someone's punching bag, and I didn't even take kickboxing.

But alas! Summer is here and I am determined to look good in a bathing suit!