We don’t mess around on Tuesday and Thursday. Tuesday is “leg day” and, well, Thursday, is “Friday Eve”. Mind you, we get after it pretty good on Thursdays. I’m definitely sore for at least two days, and we all commiserate at Sunday Night Dinner about the time when we finally felt better over the weekend. We work in two groups – the younger girls go right before us, and then we “older” girls are the hour after.
The younger girls started about two months ago. And they love it. What’s great is that my 12yo is learning about proper workout techniques from the best trainer in the area. My trainer. Joe. Not to be too corny, but he’s no average Joe. It took me two years of watching the other “older” girls working out before I finally stopped making excuses why I couldn’t work out with them. Time. Work. Kids. Money. Where there’s a will there’s a way. I found the way. In 2015 my New Year’s Resolution was to “not put myself last”. And on January 2nd, 2015 I started working out two days a week with the “older girls”.
My first day was a disaster. I nearly passed out during the warm up. REALLY? That’s just pathetic. I blamed it on my sugar level being too low. (Husband corrected me to advise it was the blood flowing, and heart pumping, at a speed greater than stagnant to cause my light-headedness.) So, if you come across this when you first start to work out, it’s not the exercise, it’s you. Don’t give up. Drink some water, eat better next time, maybe take it a little easier on yourself. But don’t give up. I think they all took bets on how long I would last. Believe me, I think of that every time I do a squat, or a sit-up throw, or a bench press.
The beauty in working out with other women, in what I call, a “man’s gym”, is that everyone in there is equal. Sure, it was intimidating at first to work out in Joe’s gym. After all, the 20yo had been working with him for nearly 4 years with all his buddies, now it was my turn. We push each other. We support one another. We make fun, tease, entice, bad-mouth, fart (yes, fart), laugh, and most of all, love each other for working out together. We have become one with the gym.
Tuesday – Leg Day. This is truly my favorite day of the week. Don’t tell anyone. I love to push myself on squats. If my legs aren’t shaking by the end of the workout, it wasn’t that it wasn’t a good workout, it’s that I didn’t work hard enough. The only person you cheat on by not doing that full set is you. For a while I wasn’t able to run. I didn’t quit, I adjusted, with Joe’s help. He monitors everything we do. He knows how each of us lift, squat, etc. When we look out of sorts, he’ll mention it. He won’t tell us to stop. He’ll modify your workout or correct you. Until you get it right.
Thursday is, well, yes, Friday-Eve. Not just in the gym, but all day. I can’t wait to get in the gym and workout. I feel like a caged animal in my cubicle. Leaving work by 4 has become a habit so I can get to the gym that much sooner. As like all preworkouts, we roll. It feels so incredible, and at the same time, so painful. Self-infliction. A good kind of pain. I look forward to the Thursday roll. My legs get much-needed extra time to loosen up from Tuesday. On the floor, we all catch up on Tuesday’s workout and what hurts more, who hurts the most, and of course, what we think Joe will throw at us. 60 minutes later, we’re done.
We all thank Joe for our workout. Pay him. And then, we talk about where we’re going to go for dinner.
That’s right. After workout we all go out to eat, and (drink) to celebrate our week. We celebrate our win of working out. We relish in the pain, again. Our families join us when they can. It becomes a bit of Sunday Night Dinner, without anyone having to host. It’s Friday Eve. And we’ll do it all over again the next week.
One summer night I looked around at our group of friends and realized they had become my “family”. Some I have known for several years, some just recently. We have a common bond that very few can understand. All that matters is that we understand it, we are dysfunction-ally functional.
nights its a competition of which Mom makes the dinner everyone likes the most. Can you please the 8 year old? Will he eat your dinner? And some nights we moms have epic fails that we are reminded about week in and week out. The two 12 year olds make the desserts. A big kid goes off to college. College kids come home for Sunday Night Dinner. Dads work late, moms drink wine.
