You know that stupid Lululemon bag with all the affirmations written over it: “Friends are more important than money,” “Breathe Deeply,” “Dance, Sing, Floss, and Travel,” et cetera? You probably have it, or just like the rat adage, you are no more than twenty feet away from one. It’s a real life urban meme, your cleaning lady carries one as does your lawyer, pot dealer, and girl guide cookie distributor. Mine is hanging in my office. And yes, I do have an office, which is more like an orifice, a black hole filled with bomb shelter material and also where the washing machine lives and the window to the back deck where I keep track of the weather. The bag hangs on one of those Ikea metal shelves and we mock each other daily. “Get off your fat ass and go to the gym,” The bag greets me in the morning. I don’t even have to look up at it, I’ve memorized its repertoire, “Do one thing a day that scares you?” I sneer, “Why don’t you haul yourself over the deck and go dance in the wind, American Beauty?” In fact, Bag and I are like that married couple in that movie. Remember the one with Annette Bening and Kevin Spacey? The wife is a rigid and righteous real estate agent (LOL) and the husband becomes the pot-smoking, pedo-bear. He is the awesome one. He decides he is in love with a teenage cheerleader and gets all buff to impress her. Things go awry in a tragedy of errors, proving my theory that Karma is a fat cat on the Khardashian payroll. Neither here nor there, I am Kevin Spacey. Bag is my bitch and I’m not going to let her tell me what to do but! I will go to the gym! I can put all my sweaty stuff in Bag and make her useful.
I am no stranger to the gym. In fact, mine is my second home. It’s more like a club because it has a fitness area, tennis and squash courts, a spa, a restaurant, and a parking lot. I’ve been a member for 14 years and started going when Freddy was a toddler-type. Before that I was going to a rec center and doing cavewoman aerobics 3 times a week. When I joined my gym, it was like I had died and gone to heaven! I went 7 days a week the first month, they had daycare! Kids could go in a room for two hours while mama could play! And I did: I spun, did step class, learned to use machines, and I was there for two weeks before I even realized they had showers! And a sauna! And a hot tub! What a bumpkin I was. Six weeks went by, and it was mid-September, and before I knew it, I had lost 15 pounds. In turn, I gained a monster. That was when my mojo came back. It was a force I couldn’t control. It was an insatiable creature, filled with sexual hallucinations, with eyes in back of its head and a hole in its heart. And I became a gym bunny. Slash predator.
What’s the difference between a gym bunny and a gym rat? They both run in packs but they have different agendas. The bunny is social and can be found in fitness classes. The rat works out on his own, on a treadmill or in the iron room. The bunny looks around and notices what people are doing, wearing, and talking about. The rat doesn’t have to look around, he can smell camel toe. Watch out for that rat, bunny! His teeth are sharp and he talks out of his ass! I wish I could tell my younger self. Bunnies will turn into sloths, rats keep moving and upgrading their cars. The proof is in the parking lot. And that’s where all the real gym action takes place.
So yes, September has come, and like it or not, it’s a new start. And my mojo rests under a “layer of gelatinous complacency,” that’s what I’m calling fat now, it’s more accurate. Mama wants her mojo back! Not the crazy monster one but a tamed, refined, wiser version. The tail is in there somewhere, I can feel it burrowed, tickling my fourth eye chokra, that one that no one taps in yoga class but we all know is there. The only way to get it out, is to go back to the gym where it was born the first time. And why don’t I rename this blog The Mojo Whisperer? Anyway, I’ve been going every day more or less and spinning and even found an old-style step class which was hard! How did I ever put 3 risers underneath that thing? (that’s what she said!) What doesn’t kill you, hasn’t killed you yet. Put that slogan on your bag, Bag. Go dance like no one is watching: