I recently decided that in order to tackle the stubborn squishy bits that have acquired more real estate on my body, I needed do something about my workout ‘routine’. I use the “ “ because I’m pretty sure an effective workout routine doesn’t include a cardio portion, a ‘final spin’ portion a ‘sort-the-toys-so-I-can-locate-my-mat’ portion and a ‘Now-I’m-too-damn-tired-to-lift-these-stupid-weights’ portion. Since The Monkey was born, I’ve been clawing out workout time late at night in a cobbled home gym and, for the most part, winning the battle against the squishy bits. Then I turned 40.
So The Monkey and I have a trial membership at the-fresh-out-of-the-wrapper Canada Games Centre (CGC to the cool kids). The CGC is, Halifax’s newest community facility and our version of the Vancouver Olympic Stadium. Okay, it’s nothing like that. But still, a really cool spot. An AWESOME running track, well appointed fitness room, and the big attraction, two huge pools, complete with scary swirly and steep water slides. That’s right, wet, splashy fun.
It’s a thrill to be out of my teeny tiny little Mom gym. For all it’s convenience, I really was treating it like a correspondence course; always distracted with something that needed to be done IMMEDIATELY (like organizing my closet in order of colour or snaking a drain). I’ve discovered thinking about working out doesn’t give you the desired results as actually working out.
But one of the greatest perks about Mom’s gym was the dress code, or lack thereof. I could wear a hat, bandana, old painting shirts, mismatched socks, yoga pants covered in dog slobber, or just a sports bra if I wanted to, damn it. (obviously, there are no mirrors at Mom’s gym).
You ever have one of those moments where you think you’re so cool and hip, only to be faced with the cold, naked truth? That’s me at the CGC. I am not cool. I’m a middle-aged chick who huffs and puffs around the track in unflattering, mis-matched non-Lululemon clothes, with a plume of dog hair trailing behind her. My face goes fourteen shades of purple from the extreme exertion of dragging my ‘independently flowing’ ass around the track. But, 'So what!' I say. I have an iPod, which essentially means I tune out the real world, plug in and instantaneously transform into a tall slender drop dead sexy 25 year old singing sensation performing a duet with John, or David or Ray. So meh. I can get over being non-hip.
But there’s a pool, remember? A pool. Good god, There.Is.A.Pool.
Let me just state that squishy bits and bikinis don’t belong together. Ever. I’m convinced the Oxford Dictionary added ‘Muffin Top‘ after a trip to the CGC pool. But it’s not us middle-aged women, it’s the tweens and teens! The next generation really is in a serious health crisis, particularly when very petite young girls have zero muscle tone and an excessive waistband. Too little material stretched waaaay too far.
After witnessing the parade of eensy-weensies on the pool deck I decided; a) any amount of money spent to join the CGC is money invested in The Monkey’s physical education and b) my ‘mom’ bathing suit was overkill; pretty much the burka of bathing suits.
So, no more sad tankini; after all, it did have enough room to house my boobs around my waist and shorts about as appealing as two garbage bags strapped to my thighs. So, tenuously, I dug out the slightly more risque bikini top and bottom with cute matching covering surf shorts. Surely this look would say; “Hey! I’m 40, a mom and yes, I’m not perfect, but look! I still got a lil’ sumpin going on!” Age appropriate, but still flirty enough to show I was still cool, still hip.
I should’ve explained my plan to The Monkey.
A plan is only great if executed well, an ensemble only as good as its collective parts. Imagine me today sashaying into the pool with the sad ol’ saggy tankini top, NO bikini bottoms and the low rise surf shorts with warn out underwear waistband peeking over the top. Note to self: Don’t let The Monkey pack the gymbag.
Now if you’ll excuse me, Mom’s gym is calling.
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