Bad Thing Happen When You Go to the Gym

A few years ago there was this ad campaign in NYC with the slogan:
Bad Things Happen when you Leave the City.

Really striking images, like a tornado about to obliterate a lone farmhouse, fed into the the firm belief that we (cosmopolitan sorts from any city, even if we now live in the burbs) should have a healthy fear of Nature and all her powerful glory.

(You'll recall that Dorothy didn't say, "I don't think we're in Manhattan anymore, Toto.")

So I hope the creators of this original campaign grant me some creative license, and are flattered by my twist on things.

Bad Things Happen When You Go to the Gym. 

My bestie has been telling me this for years, each time after one embarrassing incident after another. I mean, we saw what happened with my Yoga disappointment and CH and Bendy Barbie. You would think I would learn. But noooo. I get suckered in each and every time.

And that's when my life tornado hits. Completely out of the blue, and I am left reeling.

I am a teacher. Mid-semester I was approached by our local community college to teach a Comp  course for Freshman. Reason being, they are in partnership with our school,  which means our seniors can leave school a period early and head to the college for English class (and gain college credit). Yay! I was so honored and excited to be chosen! This all starts in  their Spring semester, so for the time being I am acting as a supplemental instructor to one of the profs. as way of learning the college ropes.

And of course, there are a couple of cute boys in the class. Nothing creepy weird here! They are young. Way too young. They are like little guppies.

But they have this sense of freedom that accompanies their new college status, so they feel it's fun to flirt with me. I don't respond (inappropriate). But it's funny and slightly flattering, never the less.

Here is where the perfect storm cell develops.

Yesterday I began my period (ouch and yuck). Grading has been monstrous. It was so tempting to go home and sleep. But that is no longer an option. Suddenly over the past year, cellulite has speckled my upper thigh in places I didn't even know could carry fat deposits. So like a trooper, I decided to work out. No Zumba, because it would have been too exhausting. Instead, I felt a nice walk/jog on the treadmill could do it.

Because of my red cycle, I put on the frumpiest sweats I had. They are comfy!

(Sassy? Naughty? Nope, the only thing my bottom was saying last night was tired and saggy).

So while I'm huffing it on the treadmill, a young, cute bunny hops on to the machine next to me. I am hit with a surge of jealously, but am too tired to let it feed my warped sense of competition.

 After 20 minutes I go to the magazine rack and think, "Hmmm, maybe I can indulge in celebrity gossip and do the bike." 

All of the sudden I hear, "Nooooo. Professor Lastname, is that you?"

I turn in slow motion to my right, and see my very tall, very fit, cute, and very good A student from the college smirking at me. I feel frumpy, fat, and completely taken off guard. What is he doing here? Doesn't he know he can't see me in my personal life? Not fair! 

My response was less than charming. All I could say was, "I gotta go. I gotta go." I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and I am bright pink (matching my sweats).

He - at the oh-so- mature age of 19 - had to console me! "It's okay Ms. Lastname. We're all here working out. I am as bad as you." 

In my head I am thinking, No. You actually worked out. I merely took a leisurely stroll on the treadmill. But it was an incline. Inclines count for something, right?!

We say "bye" and then as I head out, I notice that cute, sprinty, perky bunny who was on the machine next to mine hugs him. She is his girlfriend. Perfect.

I wonder how things will be Monday. I must apologize for treating him so rudely, and make sure he doesn't feel bad. But lesson learned. The next time I want to work out, I'll just pop in a DVD at home and let Jillian Michaels shred me up in the comfort and privacy of my own living room.