Dough is Me

Before the holidays, I was a relatively healthy individual.

But after a season of decadence, I was 90 percent sugar and alcohol. My bones were toffee, my organs were cookie dough, and Cabernet coursed through my veins.

If you’re a cannibal, I’m your gal.

On January 3^rd, my doughy physique entered the gym.

For thirty minutes, I wheezed my way through a workout.

“First time here?” The perky young gal next to me asked.

If only I had the strength to smack her.

Vowing never to return, I headed for the exit.

 Instead, I was stopped by Muscles, the gym manager. Like a predator that could detect fear, Muscles could sniff out a high BMI.  “How would you like to be part of our 2020 Fitness Challenge?” he asked.

If only I had the agility to escape.

Muscles moved quickly. Within five minutes, I handed over my credit card to pay for 3 months of weekly weigh-ins. I tried to explain that my pride wasn’t for sale, but the $75 receipt said otherwise.

Muscles took me into his office. “You can take off your shoes,” he said.

“And?” I said.

“Step on the scale,” he added.

Was he insane?

I began mentally calculating the extra weight I was carrying: t-shirt, sports bra, leggings, socks, scrunchie…

Did he want me to cry?

I should take everything off and make him cry.

Muscles guided me to the scale. I tried to fight him but he was too strong (hence the name). In a final act of defiance, I flung my scrunchie across the room, no doubt sparing me crucial ounces.

But it couldn’t spare me from the pain I was about to endure as Muscles read those numbers aloud.

“AAAAAH!!!”

Good Lord, those are 2^nd trimester numbers.

Maybe I’m pregnant? 

Except, I’m 53, so maybe not.

The fun continued with the body fat measuring.

“Is this where you put clamps on my flab?” I asked.

“No clamps,” Muscles promised. “We use the Fit3D scanning machine.”

Muscles led me to a circular metal platform and instructed me to grasp the handles. After a series of beeps, the machine slowly rotated me in a clockwise fashion, like a rotisserie chicken.

It was the most fun I had all day.

You know what wasn’t fun?

The email I received from Muscles the following day.

I opened it, expecting an apology letter.

Instead, Muscles had sent me a list of all my measurements, also known as hate mail.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading.

Surely, that was a typo.

Did they measure my waist twice?

Did the highest BMI win?

But the true horror was yet to come.

Scrolling down, I discovered a live image similar to what you might see in a futuristic sci-fi movie. You know, where they show the hologram of a body rotating on a high-tech grid? In the movies, the body is always tall, sleek, and ready for battle.

The image he sent was short, doughy, and ready for dessert.

How dare Muscles send such an unflattering picture!

I’m going to march right down to that gym and give him a piece of my mind!

If only I had the endurance.