Joann. My sister-in-law. The trainer. Who is perfect. And who is telling me she is all in on helping me get Michelle Obama arms. YAY!!
Except, NOOOO!! She's not talking about giving me the link to a few exercise websites or YouTube videos where I can maybe follow along lifting my two pound weights occasionally or maybe just watch people exercise on The Biggest Loser as I sit on the couch eating peach pie and ice cream. Which I've never done. Except for that one time. And those other few times.
She's talking about...training. Training me. I would have a trainer. A trainer who would expect me to probably, you know, exercise.
Do I really want this? I mean, yes, in theory I want this. Who wouldn't want Michelle Obama arms? But, I just... want them. I want them to magically appear. I don't want to have to work for them. Dear God. I mean, I have bat wings. They flap when I wave hello at someone. Michelle Obama has arms with sculpted muscles. No flapping. I'm out of breath just thinking about the amount of work it will take to get from here to there.
In theory, I want a lot of things: a little less dust on every surface in my house, closets that don't spill their contents the second the door opens, six working chairs around the kitchen table, Christmas decorations put back in the crawl space before the summer, bras that aren't ten years old with wires poking out, the ability to say no to a
Pipe dreams, all of them.
But this. Getting in shape. Flap-free arms.
I really d k.
Wait a minute.
If I have a trainer, that means I may have to go to the gym. If I go to the gym, I will need to look cute. If I am to look cute at the gym, I will need some cute clothes to work out in. Obviously. This means...a whole new wardrobe. A workout wardrobe. Cute little workout tops. Cute little workout bottoms. Matching sneakers. Matching hair ties. I will go to the gym in my new cute workout clothes and all the ladies will look enviously at me. They will start to talk amongst themselves. "Have you seen that new girl in the cute workout clothes? Do you know her? Have you ever seen her before? I wonder who she is? If only I looked as cute as her in my workout clothes. I don't even notice her bat wings or muffin top because I am so transfixed by her cute outfit." I will soon be known throughout the gym as New Girl With Cute Clothes. People will wait for me to appear to see what outfit I am wearing. Fashion trends will be started. Sweatpants will be burned. "Thank you, New Girl," the ladies will say. "Thank you for abandoning your housework to pursue your dream of Michelle Obama arms."
I'm all in.