So I've joined a gym. That one that's open 24 hours a day in case my anxiety drives me to the rowing machine at 2 AM, which as yet it has not. I have been told, however that I would be surprised how busy it is at that hour and I do not doubt the wisdom of the man in the red shirt who took my money and agreed that I should sign up for a trainer package a well.

Which I think was a good idea because while I'm sure there are people who can read the instructions on the various machines o'doom and understand what, exactly, they are supposed to do, I am not one of them. Or as my trainer explained -- I need to re-write my body map. If you understand what this means, let me know. What I think it means is that my spatial sense is for shit and squatting and swinging on those long resistance band things scares me, although I have conquered my fear of the 'assisted chin up machine' which I think deserves a glass of red wine.

What open- 24- hour -gym guy did not tell me when I requested a female trainer was that somehow the powers that be would decide that this person would turn out to be a former student whose Great Gatsby essays I graded (whether pleasantly or harshly I fortunately have no memory) when she was in the 11th grade. Yes, I was duly weighed and measured and BMI'd by someone who I may or may not have allowed to use the bathroom if she got her work done.

Still, once we both got over the shock, she taught me what to do, gave me a routine and got excited at my whittled off inches the other day. Plus I am now taking yoga two nights a week which also flummoxes me still (flow? downward dog? some other word I don't know yet?), but feels good and makes me feel like possibly I could be at least somewhat limber-ish after say, a year. I will never stand on my elbows. But I already say 'Namaste' like a pro. And I now own my own purple yoga mat. Although I find those little sling things kind of show-y and believe that I need to keep this up for a number of months before caving to that purchase.

And so it goes. I have a lock now and a gym bag (actually it's my Soho Teen tote, the one with the zombie guy on it, which makes me happy) and a water bottle and I kind of like going later at night when it's quiet and a bit disheveled and you have to root around for a stationary bike that's not three layers of sweaty and the free-weights are sort of scattered. I don't mind the scavenger hunt. Although when we have to mop our space because the Zumba girls sweated profusely and no freaking way even with a mat am I going to attempt cat and cow with a stranger's Zumba sweat looming at me.

Anyone else have a gym story to share?
Speak up, people!
Namaste.