If You are the Fattest Person in the Room, That's a Red Flag...

For those of you who don't regularly follow my whiny yet amusing tales from the gym on Facebook, I joined a gym back in January and have had a series of highs and lows from trying to lose that last stubborn...um...150 pounds.

I enrolled in personal training sessions with my friend Ashley, and THOUGHT that they were working, what with a 16 pound weight loss, plus feeling firmer in places that used to only be flabby. So, when my trainer told me and Ashley he wanted us to go to the bootcamp being held in a few days at the gym, I was reluctant (um, hello, the NAME says it all, yes?) but decided I would give it a try. Ashley had school that day. Lucky bitch.

On Bootcamp Day, I showed up to the gym and watched skinny person after skinny person file into the room. Uh-oh. Surely I am not the only fat person doing this shit, right? I mean, why would my trainer tell me to do this if it wasn't fat-people-friendly? Where's my fellow twenty-something snarky fatties I can roll my eyes with ? We can make a nice corner in the back! At this point I was still holding out optimism...until I ended up on a mat alone. In the front.

As more people filed in, I tried to assess exactly how far behind I was going to fall in this class. Older women strolled in, and I thought, "HEY, maybe it'll be me and the old ladies! Surely they would break a hip before me, yes?"

Another older man walked in, and my first thought was, "Ahoy matey!" He was wearing denim shorts (DENIM! HOW does one move in DENIM? I am not even confident about my choice in UNDERWEAR for this class!), a tee-shirt, and sneakers. While the shorts were an unorthodox choice, the fact that it was accessorized by a bungee cord around his ass/groin was what really had me. I decided to silently name him Captain Bungee Pants. It was my only giggle of the hour!

Once the class got started I knew I was in trouble. After about ten minutes of grueling shit I can't even recall (I guess you need adequate oxygen to store memories.), I MIGHT have completely lost my shit, told the main trainer I was walking out, and then I MIGHT have stood up from my mat and spun around to look at my trainer and said, "This is bullshit and you know it. You KNOW I can't do this. Are you kidding me?"  And then I might have cried. Maybe. For a minute. Or two.

I swiped at my eyes frantically as they told me...I don't know, I was too busy trying to breathe. Something nice with a "rah rah, you can do it!" theme. I took a couple (hundred, hyperventilating) breaths, and continued. I often joke that I don't care if I die during workout sessions like these, because then I will not have to return. This was the first time it was a serious thought. At least if I collapsed like a fat asshole on the little rubber mat, I would never have to do this shit again. I wouldn't have to worry about being fat. A ten-year battle with obesity would be over. I would not win, but I would not have to fight anymore, which is still a victory for me. The Charlie Sheen school of WINNING!

I am pretty sure the only thing that kept me going was the little pep talks from my trainer. At least, I vaguely remember hearing him saying encouraging things and then me trying harder. But I am also prrrretty sure I blacked out a couple times, so maybe it was the voice of God.

As I looked around, I saw my Golden Girls holding their own way better than I ever could. SHIT! I am the SOPHIA in a room full of BLANCHES!!!! An obese, crazy-story-telling, meatball-loving SOPHIA!

Since I was alternately trying to breathe and trying not to cry, I never noticed how Captain Bungee Pants fared. It's probably best for my self-esteem that I never know.

When the class was done, I scooted out as fast as I could as I told myself over and over, "You can cry when you get in the car...you are not crying here. AGAIN!"

I spent the following three hours crying, thinking, fuming, crying, thinking, spacing out, and crying.

Which is when I decided that come Monday, it couldn't hurt to call my insurance company to see if they cover weight loss surgery. And then, if they do, call the doctor to get more information. If I don't care about dying during my 80 bajillionth squat, I might care even less about dying from a surgery that will help me to lose enough weight so that I don't have to not care about squat-induced death in the first place! Yes, it is a deranged line of thinking. I might still be running on a crappy, hyperventilated oxygen supply.

We'll see on Monday.