But I do not like to work out.
And I do like chocolate.
So sharing this, because
a. you will love it, and
b. I need a graphic for this post.
So I have something for your amusement today … so let me start here.
I am not really a fan of reality tv.
I heard that those duck guys were pretty funny, and we watched a couple of episodes of the cake decorating guy. I tried one of the many Real Housewives shows, but they turned out to be neither real or housewives for that matter. Saw a couple of the so called dating ones where they fly home to meet families after breaking eachother in via the passion suite or whatever it is called. No just checked, it is in fact the ‘fantasy suite’ and apparently whatever happens in the ‘fantasy suite stays in the fantasy suite.’ But back when we first arrived in FL and I was stuck in a hotel for a month with a 20 month old and an almost 6 year old there was Fear Factor. They took on incredible feats of walking highrises and diving great depths … but then they liquidized maggots and ate bull testicles and I barely made it to the bathroom – and thus my idea of reality tv and I not being a match was already ingrained way back.
Wiki on the other hand, has a couple she thinks are hilarious – she also firmly believes that we should have one of our own. We have crazy conversations in the car, bizarre things seem to happen to us when we travel and in general there is seldom really a dull moment. There are often days just like this one. (which I rather hope that you click over and read)
This brings me to yesterday.
I am not a gym rat.
Anyone who knows me will assure you that this is true. My total inability to stay still, and my anal ocd personality for cleaning, dusting and mopping have kept my metabolism in check. It is well known that if you need to Skype, then I am not your girl. But in an effort to get the children moving, (and a little sarcastic input from the one being described as Darth Vader this week about being a better example) I joined a gym. To give you an idea of how long it has been, while side by side on treadmills, Wiki asked me when I was last in a gym.
When I was seven months pregnant.
She is exactly 15 and 8 months old now.
Indeed, so not a gym rat.
So yesterday, we went to the gym and I updated The Crackbook saying that …
Just put make up on to go to the gym. Guess plastic surgery and a tennis coach are next. #Godhelpme
Yes, there was an outpouring of disbelief on all counts.
But I did actually go to the gym.
On arrival we first fought with the locker for about ten minutes until we enlisted help from an attendant because my technical challenges apparently extend far and wide. Then we made it up the stairs and I headed to the back to something called a Stairmaster. Wiki said this was a big NO – after all the things are about ten ft up in the air and resemble those machines from the Star Wars movies. She stood on the one next too me, and after the stairs started moving ever so slowly, she declared this to be a no go. Not so easily deterred I decided there was a man on one and he was barely this side of 90 … how hard could it be?
So I hit the button.
It started quite slowly, so slowly that I felt somewhat of an idiot while I fumbled with the buttons on the screen. I hit it up a few notches, then a few more. There did not seem to be an exact program but my feet were now climbing stairs while my hands were trying to figure what to push next and apparently my arms and legs cannot work on opposite ends of the spectrum at the same time. Remember that thing where you would try and circle your arm one way, while circling your foot another … now picture it on a ten ft high behemoth machine.
The machine kicked into high drive.
I was still trying to change the buttons.
My feet decided that my hands were winning and gave up the challenge.
I held on with all my might but my feet fell out beneath me.
And there I was.
Hanging from a bar, high up in the air.
Screaming and laughing hysterically for Wiki to HELP ME as my legs continually crashed into a set of moving stairs and my dignity lay in shreds on the floor. The machine sensing my inability to hit end, stop or unplug mercifully turned itself off. No one made eye contact and the 15 yr old had possibly peed in place.
I am not a gym rat.
For future reference, looking for a man to date at the gym is probably not on the cards for me.
I told Wiki in the car once she had collected herself and declared ice cream to be the cure all, that it did remind me of I Love Lucy. I then had to show my children because it was before their time – and I am sure mine. So for your viewing pleasure, I bring you the famous chocolate scene.
Hugs and kisses – Nicole.