"I am all in on this for you."
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 third second glass of wine.
Pipe dreams, all of them.
But this.  Getting in shape.  Flap-free arms.
Idk.
I really d k.
Wait.
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.

My daughter got engaged.  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Woop woop, congrats, yadda yadda.  Great.  It's all great.  Whatever.
We all the know the most important part of Christie's wedding day will be...
me looking good in the pictures.
Mother-of-the-Bride.  Me.
Mother
Of
The
Bride
I'm going to be a mother of the bride.   Um, what??   Everybody will be looking at me.  And probably somewhat at Christie.  So much pressure.  The hair.  The make-up. The dress.  The shoes. The photographs!!
How am I going to get through all those photographs?  There won't be any smoke and mirrors!  There won't be any filters!  What the h@@@ am I going to do?  Maybe I can get her to call off the wedding? Yes, that's it!  That's a great idea.  That can happen.  Shoot.  No, it can't.  Paul's perfect.  He's better than Prince Charming.
Dear reader, let me explain something.  Things...happen...as you get older. Bad things.  Really bad things.  A good friend recently put her arm around me and gently explained, "Petra, your body is changing."  I wanted to punch her in her sweet little face.
  I don't like it.  I don't like it AT ALL!   One morning, not too long ago, I woke up to find myself in the middle of a war.  A horrendous, horrible, hideous war.  A war I wasn't ready for.  At all.  I hadn't even had my coffee yet, for God's sake.  I woke up to find I was in a war with gravity.   Seriously.  I went to bed and everything was fine.  I was normal, I felt fine, my body was normal.  And the next morning, I woke up, looked in the mirror and my 80 year old father was staring back at me!!  I am not kidding.  Gravity is having its way with me.   It is doing what it does naturally...making things fall.  It is making parts of my body fall.  Lots of parts.  All parts.   Sometimes when I look down at my legs, I go to pull up my nylons only to realize I'M NOT WEARING NYLONS!!
And the bat wings.  We've talked about the bat wings before.  I can't.  I cannot even.
THIS is how I'm going to look on the day a bajillion pictures are going to be taken of me?
I DON'T THINK SO.
My sister-in-law is a personal trainer in Atlanta.  She is perfect.  She lives in a beautiful house, has a beautiful family, plays tennis, cooks gourmet meals, and is a size zero with muscles.  I hate her.
Despite (or possibly due to) my abiding envy, I emailed her:
You know how there is an app "from couch to 5K" in nine weeks?  Well, is there an app "from flab to Michelle Obama arms in nine months?"
I needed some direction.  I was looking for an app.  Or a couple of good websites. Or some good YouTube videos I could follow along.  I wanted two or three arm exercises I could do for a few months.
I had no idea.  No idea at all.  No idea how that one little email would change so many things....