Welcome to the latest phase of fat woman mania. The gym. True, I didn't join the he-man woman haters, testosterone leaking, bulgy muscle place. I joined a women's gym. And as I so put and amused the woman who was signing me up for a year, there are other fat women there. In fact, it's a fat women haven. Fat women working out. Fat women doing classes. Fat women doing the treadmills, bikes, and whatever the heck they call that other funky machine. (Elliptical bike or other torture like name, I think.) I've been for a month, five days a week, sometimes six, and I'm starting to develop a habit. I've got a trainer, who tortures me on a half-hour basis once a week, and who is amazingly thin and perky. (She trains for marathons for fun. God help her when she's really bored.) Then I replicate what she's taught me, except that I sweat a lot more and say more bad words when she's not around. Don't get wrong, there are non fat women there, and some who are older than I am. One woman looks like she's pushing eighty but I think she's in better shape than I am and I'm afraid to ask her in case she takes offense and she gets me in a headlock and gives me noogies.
So therein lies the latest in the saga of the fat woman. I lost eight pounds and in a single delicious weekend that included pizza and all you can eat shrimp and crab, gained it all back. Now I'm back down 4 pounds. I hate my scale.
My trainer wants to measure and weigh me next week. Whoopee. I bet she's the kind of person who freaks out when she gains two pounds.