gym gypsy.

So, I've recently decided to get back on a regular gym schedule.

I'm pausing here to let out an enormous sigh heard around the world and to give other people time to get their breath back from laughing so hard.

It's not that I don't like (well, that may be a strong word to use) going to the gym. Because I do. I DO like going... when I can actually get myself there. Being decently athletic for the better part of my life (and having a mother that is like the Adolf Hitler of gym-fanatics) at least gave me some understanding and appreciation for the Giant Building of Pain. Or, maybe that's just what I call it.

I go through these phases where it's like an alien spaceship has come down and lasered out the better part of my brain, only to insert a parasite which I've appropriately named Jillian Michaels for the way it's only goal in life is to SCREAM AT ME FOR BEING LAZY AND NOT GOING TO THE GYM. AND IT WON'T STOP. IT NEVER STOPS. EVER. Goddamn those aliens for leaving me no other choice than to find my sneakers and begrudgingly subject myself to the Pain Train for at least an hour.

The first couple times are the hardest. Yes, I know, THANK'S SHERLOCK. But once I get there, pick out the machine that's going to torture my body for the next hour. Set the timer for 60 minutes, cram the headphones in my ears, say a prayer and start moving. And moving. And moving. And not stopping. Ohmygod, I'm not stopping. What is that feeling? OHMYGOD MY THIGHS ARE ON FIRE, I THINK I NEED TO STOP.

Five minutes in, and I want to die. FIVE MINUTES. Not even one whole horrible pop-songs worth of moving and my life is flashing before my eyes. The good life which included drinking copious amounts of alcohol, chain-smoking cigarettes and inhaling pretty much any food I wanted without caring one bit. Those empire waist dresses that you love so much? There's a reason they're EMPIRE. Who cares what's under them? They hide it anyway! Oh that world, that glorious world. I'll never get to experience you again because I swear to god my lungs are going to fall right out of my mouth if I dare to even think about moving my lips. Please oh please, let me go back to my previous life.

Here's where that oh so glorious hell-bent will and determination part of my personality comes in. I don't like to start things and not finish them, at all. Even when my life is at stake apparently. Fifteen minutes pass. "Ok Allison, 45 more minutes. Just make it to 25." 25 minutes. "Ok, you made it this far. 35 minutes left. That's only like 7-okay 8-okay 9 songs." 45 minutes. I catch my second wind, and I'm HAULING ASS, feeling good.

And then, the inevitable happens. The UNTHINKABLE. My iPod dies. And my head is suddenly filled with the sound of whirring fans, heavy panting, grunting while simultaneously telling my legs to put the brakes on because the music stopped and that can only mean one thing: the torture is over! ... OR NOT, BRAIN. HOLD THE PHONE FOR A MINUTE.

As I'm scrambling, I at some point ripped my headphones from my iPod and shoved it into the radio thing connected to the machine. Anything at this point to get me to finish. I'm expecting something horrible like Beyonce or Nickelback or Justin Bieber to sudden fill my head (because you know, God has such a great sense of humor sometimes) but no. What do I hear? Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac.

Never in my life would I have thought to listen to Fleetwood Mac at the gym. I adore the Welsh Witch, Stevie Nicks, but there is a time and place for her magic. The gym is usually reserved for the likes of Britney, Gaga, etc. Something that has a steady beat, lots of bass and makes me shake my ass. I have no shame in admitting this.

However, I soldier on, mouthing the words as I finish up. And as I'm wiping down my machine with the increadible waterfall of sweat cascading down my forehead and trying to keep myself from barfing all over the place, out of nowhere comes:

THANK YOU STEVIE NICKS.

Outloud, in front of probably a dozen people. My god, I am so good sometimes.

I'm SO wearing a tophat in there next time.