On Fitness and Donuts

Everything started with that sexy dress I saw on display one lazy afternoon while I was window shopping downtown. I wanted that dress, but she did not want me. She stretched desperately on my body, but love was not there and we could not become one.

I have to give up, and put her back on the size -2 mannequin. As soon as I get home I call the local gym. Can they help? They sure can. I pay the gym fees over the phone, with my mouth full of chocolate donuts. They will give me a tour of their facility tomorrow afternoon.

The trainer greets me with a smile. He tells me that workout has to be a pleasure not a torture. Pleasure? Did he just say pleasure? This might work for me, especially with the fitness rooms reminding me of the medieval museum of tortures I had visited years ago in Europe.

And how am I going to attain the state of pleasure while slimming down to negative sizes and fitting into that sexy dress? He explains politely that their friendly and skinny staff is here with support and advice. They also have nice music -- carefully selected tunes that will motivate me to work even harder. This is what they say. I am thinking they use loud music so the screams of their tortured members do not carry outside the building.

I see. I explain the way Oana’s system works to the trainer. Nice words of encouragement won’t cut it. As far as I am concerned there must be an immediate reward at the end of the workout, otherwise I cannot follow. It can be anything from candy to cappuccinos, but it must be there.

A stunning gentleman passes us by as our conversation becomes heated. Who is he? The trainer’s assistant? Perfect! Can he run in front of me, and this way I can imagine all I have to do is catch up with him, and he will be mine?

The trainer frowns. He tells me that his assistant is a fast athlete. Really? I assure him that I can surpass the agility of a cheetah when I am motivated.

I don’t think this trainer and I will ever click, but I decide to follow him in silence as he shows me around. The treadmill looks good to me. Can we hang a chocolate donut over it so I can complete those dreaded four miles motivated and focused?

He ignores my comments and continues to go over their favorite torture devices. I learn that their workouts are extremely intense, with short or no breaks at all. However, they understand that not everyone can attain the state of perfect fitness overnight. Their revolutionary intensive and intense program titled, Manic-Anxious Weight Loss (MAWL) is not for everyone. Should I crash I am allowed a thirty-millisecond break. Can we make it thirty-five? I can inhale one medium-sized donut in that time.

Just when I start to adjust mentally to the eight-times-a-week routine, his words hit me with the force of a hammer. He suggests a diet to go with my new lifestyle.

The trainer insists that I am obese, and if I don’t take action immediately I might have just a few years left. He shows me some complicated weight/height charts (as far as I am concerned they can be maps of Mars’ mountains as well). Then he narrates a frightening story about clogged arteries shortness of breath, and WIQSPT syndrome (what is that?)

Okay, now I am really scared. And what kind of a diet is this? Oh, nothing extreme. I just have to eliminate sugars fats, and wheat. Corn is not good either. Hmmm, what is left? Carrots. And cabbage. I can also enjoy unlimited amounts of boiled celery root, an excellent source of vitamin K and calcium.

I interrupt the trainer politely only to expose my humble thoughts. I tell him that in order to lift those horrendous weights, and not drop them on my face I need some hearty meals.

Can we negotiate this? I promise to eat one carrot and half of small cabbage daily only if I can insert a couple of donuts in between them.

The trainer offers to refund the membership fees, plus the cost of thirty donuts. Why are these people so unfriendly? Yes, I am committed to weight loss. I just have a few questions, that’s all.

It is their responsibility to explain to me why I should choose to join a place where people pant sweat excessively, and look unhappy versus other places where they smile continuously while hugging their buckets of coffee topped with whipped cream and caramel syrup?

On my way out the trainer pulls one more trick on me. He shows me the picture of an anorexic woman hanging on the wall under, “You too can look like her!” logo. I produce my bathing suit pic from my purse, and ask him blatantly if she can look like me.

He writes me the check in silence.

I understand that the famous MAWL program might not be for me, but I do not feel defeated. I will just have to take my “obesity” elsewhere. There must be other options out there for miserable donut-addicts like myself.

While I indulge in my bucket of coffee, I have an epiphany. Lifting the half gallon receptacle and holding it close to my mouth should be considered serious workout.

I stand up and walk to the store in enlightenment. I order a dress my size. Then, when the clerk turns around I cross the minus sign on the label. The dress is now a decent size +2.

I like to stay positive.

© 2012 by Oana