Costume Change

I have a friend who teases me about my need for the appropriate attire for exercise. I tried to explain it to her the other night. In my yoga clothes, I'm tall and graceful. It doesn't matter that the woman in the mirror is dumpy and wide. If I put on my exercise shorts and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wonder why that person isn't on the treadmill. Even if I hadn't planned on walking, I lace up the shoes and hop on the treadmill. I'm the suburban equivalent of FloJo, or perhaps one of those women wrestlers from Russia. I'm treadmilling for my country and I'm out front (there's no one ahead of me, so I must be winning). It's a costume. A chance at as if. As if I'm an athlete, as if I'm in charge, as if I enjoy excercising, as if I'm already at my destination.

But I'm not at my destination, not even close, and today I did something about that. I went to meet the folks at Fitness Together. They weighed and measured and did some godawful pinch test and wrote it all down in a red folder. Then they told me what it was going to cost. Ouch. It's in line with other trainer fees, but the kicker is that I have to pay it up front. You understand what that means, don't you? They're asking me to commit. They're asking me to invest in myself. That's low.

It's a lot of money, but in the end, not really a tough decision. My checkbook is in my purse, and I have my first session with a trainer tomorrow after work. Now I just have to figure out what to wear.