The Dolan Weblog

I have joined Curves.  As I mentioned to some Facebook friends, I think this might be the last nail in the middle-age woman coffin.  (One friend helpfully commented, “Not the last nail.”)  I wanted to get back into some strength training, but it has been ten years since the last time I used weight machines.  I realized that, other than dancing once or twice a week, I was pretty sedentary.  So I decided that a year at Curves would be a good start.

The workouts are great for the ADD side of my personality.  You go all-out on each machine, but only for 30 seconds.  Then, you run in place for 30 seconds before the next machine.  It’s over before I have a chance to start whining.  You finish the whole workout in 30 minutes.  With the new high-tech gadgetry, you then can find out how you are progressing on the machines, how your strength has improved, and how many calories you’ve burned.  (That last one is my favorite–I mentally plan my evening wine/beer selections based on how many calories I’ve “earned”.)

Last week, I was working out and this older lady commented that I was making a lot of noise.  Really?  I’m one of those people who sometimes forgets to breathe when I’m exercising, so I tend to pant a little while doing the resistance portion.  I might even occasionally grunt, but I’m not yelling like the guys in the Mr. Universe movies.  Now I’m totally self-conscious about my workouts.  I will allow that this woman was a good 30 years older than me.  And working out in culottes.  If you don’t know that those are:

Only picture these with athletic shoes and an old lady admonishing me.

So now I’m getting dissed by old ladies in strange clothes.  Can I be any sadder?  Apparently so.

One month after I started working out, it was time for my weight and measurements day.  They take all of your info before you start, and then these monthly checks are supposed to show you how far you’ve come since that starting point.  Supposed.  To.

I’ve spent a month watching what I eat and working out three times a week.  Both things I’d really rather not do, but figured it would be worth the pay off.  After a month, I had lost 1.7 pounds.  Less than two pounds.  Even my Curves cheerleader, who is supposed to be all encouraging, sort of grimaced and said, “Well, but you haven’t been dieting, have you?”  When I told her that I had, indeed, been dieting since before I started Curves, she finally found her internal script and started the whole, “Well, at least you didn’t gain any!”  I could have sat on my ass and done that, Cupcake.  (Mmmmm, cupcakes.  Can you see my problem?)  I can boast that my body fat dropped one percentage point (I’m only 76% butter now) and my hip measurement is one inch smaller.  Tell my pants, ’cause they apparently didn’t get the memo.

Now, I’m still working out, but I’m just generally pissy about it.  Sort of this “I’m-here-not-that-it-does-any-good-(and-I’ll-grunt-all-I-want-thank-you-very-much)” attitude.  I’m like the Angry Curves Member in the script of life.  Things could be worse.

When I visited my parents for Thanksgiving, I actually found a Curves in their city so I could continue my workouts.  (Fat lot of good it did, no pun intended.)  Halfway through my circuit, one of the other women staggered off a machine and had to plop onto a nearby bench.  The employee ran and grabbed a trash can and we all watched in mild interest as the woman threw up and then sat with a washcloth on her head.  Within minutes, THREE emergency vehicles arrived.  Vitals were taken, medical history discussed, Barfing Curves Member whisked off to hospital.  With that kind of drama to watch three times a week, I might be more interested in getting to the gym.