Gymnasiums

Gyms, in addition to making me sore, are a sore subject for me. I don't like the fact that we have a place to go and exercise--the fact that exercise is separate from the rest of our lives. However, until I have my backyard farm and have to haul dirt and taking walks to visit neighbors, I need to do something to keep muscles from atrophying.

Of course, every time I'm scheduled to go to the gym, I do my best to find an excuse. So I have implemented a reward system. If I work out, I get to have beer. If I don't, no beer. Fridays are the exception. It seems to be working alright, although sometimes the laziness wins over the desire to have beer.

Although to be honest, it's not always laziness--sometimes it's a desire to not feel as though I've been thrust back into junior high school, where the popular kids with the stylish clothes look down their nose as I pass. I honestly have no idea how these women keep their hair perfect and their makeup unsmudged as they work out, but they manage. So there I am, a Pilates magic ring between my knees, face red, hair sticking out at every angle, struggling to keep a perfect open-leg rocker stance...and not only to I have to stare at myself in the mirror, but I also see the unmussed hair of the women on either side of me as they hold their legs and arms utterly straight.

It's enough to make any sane, round, uncoordinated, fluffy-haired, Target-attired woman want to get out the mixing bowls and bake a cake while checking live texts on soccer games. But--turns out--breweries keep brewing different beers. They don't just stop and let you catch up on the tastings. So with thousands of beers left to try, sometimes I have to trade the soccer match for the weight room.

Never on Saturday mornings, though.