Confessions of a Gym Virgin: Part I

The realization hit me like a pillowcase full of batteries: HOLY SHIT. It's August. August already. Do you know what I did last August? I packed up my downtown Los Angeles loft and hit the road — again — with my boyfriend and kitteh.

We didn't end up in our cramped Williamsburg one-bedroom apartment until the first week of September, but still. It was mega-transition time. And almost a year later, what do I have to show for it?

I'm settled, sure — well, to a point — but I obviously still have some Things to Figure Out. Like what I'm going to do with my life, or at least a direction to take it in. I'm feeling empty when it comes to considering long-term careers or anything creative. Why am I not writing? Art-ing? Something? Why am I in the midst of a creativity famine? I can't even be counted on to update this blog regularly. Sorry, people who clearly don't read this.

I do have some things. The apartment, for one. A full-time job. A handful of nice new friends. An addiction to Belgian wafels from a truck that roams the NYC streets. A new favorite restaurant of all time, conveniently located in my neighborhood. An obsession with Southern soul food, particularly from another neighborhood joint...

Food. Food is my constant. Food is what I love. So what I really have is a new home, a new job, new friends and 10 or so new pounds on my body.

My (not terribly significant, but still noticeable) weight gain didn't all happen after I moved here. It started when I was in the last throes of Minneapolis and continued during my year and some months in LA. I have always loved food and always eaten voraciously, especially when it comes to things that aren't good for me. I love salt, I love fat, I love red meat still oozing with blood. I love things that are breaded and things that are buttered. I love anything prefaced with the word "fried" and anything finished with a nice Béarnaise.

I've always eaten like this. But I am no longer a growing girl. I am in my mid-20s. My metabolism — once the most amazing metabolism on the planet, allowing me to eat all of the foods mentioned above without gaining an ounce — is slowly disappearing. "Fuck you, I'm done with this shit" is something I imagine my metabolism saying.

To sum up: Not only am I unmotivated and uninspired, I am also ... unthin.

So I've decided to do something about it. All of it, hopefully. A sort of revamp of my life. Starting with my body, because that's something I can at least sort of control. And maybe if I start a fitness routine, it will encourage me to get everything else in my life on track.

On Monday, I joined a gym. Gym memberships, like absolutely everything else in New York City, are ridiculously, ludicrously expensive. So when Groupon offered a cheap one-month membership to a fancy fitness chain I'd been eyeing, I leapt on that offer like a jungle cat. The thing that hooked me was that not only was the one-month membership heavily discounted, but if you chose to continue being a member after the trial month, the joiner's fee was $30 rather than an insane $150.

However, just because I am committed to this change in my physical well-being doesn't mean it will be easy, especially since I haven't worked out regularly since I was on the varsity swim team in high school. Exercise, for me, is the few city blocks between subway stops and whatever my destination is: home, work, the grocery store, the bar. Physical activity does not come easy to me at all. It means sweat and pain and sideaches and unquenchable thirst, not the invigorating feeling that fitness junkies claim to get.

So here goes nothing. Here goes everything. Here goes...