Purple weights

Not me.

OK, so that's another 30 minutes of treadmill and 30 minutes of bike-machine, plus a bunch of weight lifting today. I got home, a little wobbly, and had a huge attack of "LIE DOWN AND GO TO SLEEP RIGHT THE HECK NOW!!" But it seems to be passing. I wonder if it's some kind of blood sugar thing. Or maybe the four cups of tea has just perked me up unnaturally.

So today, there I was, sitting in front of the same mirror as this guy sitting on another weight-lifting seat-chair thingy, and we were both doing the same things with our arms at the same time, and it was hilarious because there I was struggling with these little girly purple - yes, purple, - weightlets and I was all scrinchy-faced and huffy, and the guy was lifting 15 k in each hand. In real weight, that's like thirty freaking pounds! In each hand! He was, I hasten to add, also making the scrinchy-faces and huffy noises, but seemed to have a deal more justification.

Every time I go to the gym, the same thing happens, I get there and I'm all, Oooo, I'm at the gym! and I'm going to be the best looking old person in town! See, I figure it's a big accomplishment to have left the house while wearing clothes that aren't my pjs, and be going to an actual, real gym! And then I get on the treadmill and I'm doing the fast-walking and thinking, look how fast I'm walking! Gonna be Angelina any day now!

And then I notice that the treadmill and bike-machine setting is on 2 (and it goes to 25) and the "weights" are like the kind of weights you'd imagine Paris Hilton picking because they match her purple chihuahua, and I look down and that podgy jiggly gooey thing is still right the heck there in front of me...

Oddly, I actually really like it. They're very nice to you, and it's weirdly fun to concentrate on doing this purely physical thing that you know is good for you and is actually pretty hard to do. And, given what my brain has to pay attention to during working hours - the end of the world and whatnot - having to concentrate on the simplest thing, the immediate here and now ("Thirty more?! Seriously? You saw the scrinchy-faces for the first 15 right?") and beat each challenge each time, feels really great.\

And the place is quite the nicest one I've been to.

First, it's not in Rome, which means I can get there without having to get on a train for an hour and struggle with Rome (for those who've never been, getting around Rome is always a struggle; remember all those dreams you've had where you're desperately running towards or away from something and your legs won't move and it's like you're running through molasses, and you're completely surrounded by chaos and there are inexplicably thousands of shrieking lunatics all around you and you've got no pants on? Rome's like that...) which means I'll actually go to it. I signed up last year for a gym club/Pilates studio in Rome and it was pretty great, but was such a fight to get there I just gave up.

This place is brand new and in Santa Mar., which means I will actually turn up. And it's staffed basically by one person, the owner/ trainer and the Pilates guy who's just there for class time. She and Francesco the Friendly Pilates Guy do this thing of kind of diagnosing you to see what stuff you need to do, how fast and hard you have to do it, kind of where you are to start with, and they coach you through individually. Even in the Pilates class everyone does slightly different stuff at slightly different rates and with different intensity, according to what they need. So you don't have the feeling of being way wimpier than everyone else. You just toodle along at your own rate with a personalised programme.

And, being Italians, everyone there is very nice and friendly. And they're all quite curious about what a Canadese is doing there. I've given my "I've had cancer treatments and am recovering" spiel so many times in Italian now that I'm getting quite good at it. That and counting to twenty.

Anyway, at least I've been getting a Rosary in every day now. The treadmill is kind of boring, so it's good for the boringest prayer in the Catholic world. And you can offer up all the frustration and embarrassment and the non-Angelinaness of yourself at the end. It's just GOT to be worth something in Purgatory, right?



~