Having a life. March 21, 2007

Last night, I took a class at the gym. It’s called Total Body Conditioning and it appealed to me because hey, I would like my total body to be in great condition.
 
The class was led by a fitness instructor who goes by the name True Dog. Or TruDog. Or Trewdawg. At first I was slightly nervous, as he seemed like one of those instructors that will call you out for dropping your core during pushups or for not lifting your shoulders off the mat enough during abs (not that I would ever do either, but, you know, I’m sure there’s people who do).
 
Fortunately, while there was something vaguely Boot Camp-y (and just campy in general) about him, he managed to thoroughly kick our asses and yet not be mean, which is exactly what I look for in fitness instructors. My achey butt, thighs, arms, abs, hamstrings and face muscles (don’t ask) are proof that if you follow the word of True (Tru, Trew), you will be rewarded.
 
After the class, my roommate and a friend from college and I headed into the subterranean Whole Foods at the Time Warner Center. Something about Whole Foods makes me want to eat healthy (sushi, fruit) and I always miraculously bypass the make-your-own-burrito and Indian food stations, not to mention all the delectable baked goods. Perhaps I feel as though one of the line directors will pass judgment if I am waiting to pay for six chocolate chip cookies and the Two-Bite Pecan Pie things that I will eat every day when I’m 75 years old and no longer care about how my ass looks in a bathing suit, so help me god.
 
We parked ourselves in the seating area. As I tucked into my brown rice cooked shrimp California roll (an adventurous sushi eater I am not), I heard my name being called from the nearby check-out line.
 
At first I ignored it. Which, if you knew my real first name (which some of you do), you would know is retarded because there really aren’t that many [redacted]’s roaming the streets. It’s not like Jennifer or Stephanie or Lindsay.
 
Eventually my roommate remarked that there were some people trying to get my attention. I looked up to find a cluster of my former co-workers, from Former Evil Job Which Shall Not Be Named.
 
They were on a break to grab dinner, which they were about to bring back up to their cubicles and eat at their desks and then continue working until 10pm or later because they are slaves, just as I recently was.
 
They were shocked – shocked! – to find that I had been out of work since 6pm and had already been to the gym. It was the same look I used to give people when I found out they worked normal hours and could do something after work other than flop into bed, spend five minutes with Jon Stewart and fall asleep.
 
Yes, I wanted to tell them, I have a life now. And lo, it is glorious!
 
Instead I made a lot of self-deprecating remarks and told them I missed them and invited them over to my apartment for drinks anytime they get out of work before 10pm.
 
Later on, my roommate and I walked home, plopped ourselves on the couch and watched The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll. And, as I rooted for former-fattie-now-total-hottie Chelsea and compared Anastacia to a lion, I realized that having a life feels so freakin’ good. And having done something good for my body (the gym) and my friendships (dinner) made watching crappy reality TV afterwards a bit more digestible. A stark contrast to when I worked, worked, worked and watched TV and fell asleep and felt like a total failure at life.
 
So, things are looking up. Or are already up. Or will be fully up when I pick up my sexy boyfriend from LaGuardia tonight at 10pm because the sunshine! It has melted the snow! And I will be able to get out of the parking space without posing a threat to all men, women, children and animals in the vicinity.
 
Life is good. Especially having one.