Now that the wedding is less than a month away, I’ve decided to (finally) get serious about making sure that I look like a toned, bronzed goddess on our wedding day.
At work, they have a program for 6 weeks where a personal trainer comes in for 30 minutes, and there is a group exercise class twice a week. You know – a “light workout” during lunch. LIGHT workout. I decided to join. What have I got to lose? Nothing but pounds, baby. The night before the first class, I was telling Peter that I was a little bit nervous about doing a fitness class in the middle of the day with people that I work with.
Peter: Sar. It’s a “light workout”. You’ll be fine.
Sara: But Peter. I get REALLY sweaty.
Peter: Yeah, but the trainer knows that you have to sit at your desk for the rest of the day. You’ll be FINE.
You know how everyone is at the lowest point on their attractive scale when they exercise? Well I am BELOW the lowest point. My face gets all red (and stays red. For hours.), and I sweat like there’s no tomorrow. My hair gets slicked back to my head. It’s disgusting. But I’ve accepted it, because that’s the way life goes. Anyways, in your place of employment, you should try to look your best and not your worst. So I was just really nervous about potentially looking beyond my worst for an entire afternoon twice a week.
The first workout was FAR from a light workout. There are about 30 or so people doing it, and we were all like ohmyGAWD this is REALLY difficult. Look at how sweaty I am! Look at how red my face is! I need a sweat rag. So, I changed back into my work clothes and sat at my desk for the rest of the day disgusted by the mere thought of people seeing me in this grotesque state.
When I got home from work, I noticed my elbows hurt. Why the heck did my elbows hurt? Turns out that I was sweating SO much that even my ELBOWS were sweating, so when we were doing planks, my elbows kept sliding back, and I HAD RUG BURN ON MY ELBOWS. I felt like I was 8 years old. Why me? WHYYYYY me?? So for two weeks I wore bandaids on my elbows because they hurt, and I didn’t want big ol’ scars from the scabs that were going to form since I’m getting married in a sleeveless dress in a short time. For the love.
In my efforts to become bronzed, I decided to go to a tanning booth. Before I start getting hate mail telling me about how horrible tanning booths are for me, let me tell you that I know. Have you met my mother? I don’t go often. Only when I want my skin to be a shade lighter than white.
Anyway, on Monday I went to a tanning salon. The girl told me that I had “pretty fair skin” (thanks), so I should probably only go in for five minutes. Five minutes? Seriously? It was going to take me longer to take off my clothes, get lotioned up, and put my clothes back on again. But alas, they are the professionals, so I figured that I should listen to them.
Five minutes seemed like nothing. I called Jenna and told her about it and she laughed at me. “Tomorrow, I’m going to do six. I hope I make it out without blisters.” I told her merrily.
Yesterday, I got to the tanning place and went for six minutes. A whopping sixty seconds longer than I had gone the day before.
And now my entire body has a pinkish hue and my skin is raw. Who knew that there would be such a difference between five and six? Not me. But apparently the tanning lady knew it.
Better luck next week. I mean, I have to go again. The wedding is in THIRTY DAYS.
I WANT TO BE A TONED, BRONZED GODDESS, DAMMIT.