Two weeks ago I decided to join a gym that opened up around the corner. It’s a boxing-based circuit that you do in a half hour. It’s pretty fun, quick and a great way to get some intense exercise into my routine. Because when you eat buttered donuts constantly like I do, being active is pretty vital.
On my first morning there the trainer(s) took me through it step by step. They were (are) fantastic, really positive and helped me get reacquainted with things like my abs and my flabby flab arms. It was a struggle to make it through the training as I haven’t been to the gym regularly for well over a year. At the end of the half hour I was pumped! I signed up for a year and I picked out my boxing gloves. I was going to be a freaking boxer!
Then something strange happened. Things were going fuzzy, there were lights where there shouldn’t be lights and I was sweating over my sweating…
…And that’s when I barfed in the gym. Right in front of the trainers that I told flat-out that I was okay to do some rigorous exercise, that I didn’t have any illness and that I was generally in good health. It was during my second heave that I thought to myself, I need to get out of here as fast as possible! But I was so mortified I could do nothing but stand there and apologize and hope that eventually the floor would open up, swallow me whole and erase my existence from these two kind folks’ memories.
The owners could not have been nicer or more comforting to me. Once things were cleared away and I had given as many apologies as I could I scampered away as fast as I could. As soon as I got home I did two things:
1. Make a promise to myself to get to that gym every day. I might be the girl who did that embarrassing thing that one time but I also want to be that super badass girl who can throw some fierce punches; and
2. Order them flowers to say “Thank you for being so nice”.
Two weeks later and my right hooks are pretty killer. Ain’t no one gonna mess with the girl who barfed now!