At the beginning of this month, I signed up for a new weight loss competition at my gym. The idea behind the contest is simple, but beneficial. Gym members were able to sign up as a team of four or as a single. All of the single participants will be put on a team with three other strangers. Then for eight weeks, we work out and try to lose weight. Every week, we weigh in and write down how many pounds we shed. At the end of two months, the team that loses the most pounds, wins the contest. Parish thought he was too cool to participate (or something along those lines), but I happily signed up and weighed in.
Prior to my weigh in with Bill, the gym owner, there was only one other man who knew how much I weighed. My husband is the only human being who knows that number and he is going to the grave with that information.
Bill is a marathon runner and uber fit and doesn’t look like he’s struggled with a weight problem – ever. I guess he wanted to make sure no one lied about how much they weighed and cheat just to win the cruise or flat screen TV that awaits the successful team.
I quickly walked to the ominous scale, trying to lose Bill in the process, but it’s a small gym, and he caught up with me quickly. He told me to take off my shoes and step on the scale. Then the phone rang. Saved by the bell! Bill excused himself and went to answer the phone at the front of the gym. I took this opportunity to jump on the scale and see the number before he returned. I wanted to be prepared and not faint and land on skinny Bill.
My devious plan worked, allowing me to see the damage, hop off and exhale a few times. He came back, smiled and apologized for stepping away. Of course he didn’t know that I used the interruption to my advantage, so I told him, “No worries.”
I finally stepped on the scale – Bill asked me if that looked right and after I nodded, he wrote it down and walked away. I put on my tennis shoes and ran to a nearby machine and started working out right away.
In the next eight weeks, I’m going to try my best (without getting psycho) to work out regularly and eat well. That is my plan, although I might have to take a mini hiatus when the cookies I ordered from the cutest little Girl Scout come in. Talk about bad timing! A friend of mine sent out a message on Facebook asking if anyone wanted to place an order for GS cookies. I replied. Send me two of everything! Just kidding!
I ordered a box of Samoas for Parish and a box of tagalongs (or Peanut Butter Patties) for the both of us. When it comes to empowering little women, I’m all for it. And if my small contribution aids in raising the next Amelia Earhart or Oprah Winfrey, I will sacrifice a few more minutes on the treadmill to make it possible.
When I was younger, I was part of a similar organization and it gave me confidence and the ability to make friends easily. So what if I have to digest a few delicious, round morsels! Just don’t tell Bill.