Spandex--It Ain't For Sissies

I discovered something about Spandex. It’s airtight.


That’s right. If you’re wearing Spandex, there’s nothing getting between it and you. Not sweat, not hair, and definitely, not air.

Spandex and I are completely incompatible, and yet…I succumbed to the urge and bought myself an outfit. A tank top. Some tight little exercise pants. No problem, right?

My Spandex came without instructions. No warning labels. No ‘How To’ directions….

It was a free-for-all.

I waited until the house was empty before entering the fray. In my bedroom, with the door locked, I took my Spandex outfit out of the package.

It wasn’t much bigger than Barbie doll clothes. How could those tiny pieces of black material fit someone my size? Wow. I was entering the world of polyurethane-poly-urea copolymer. That tells you right there… Spandex ain’t for sissies. This stuff is used in orthopedic braces. Surgical hose. Wrestling singlets. Heck… Superman, Batman, Captain America and Dolly Parton all wear Spandex. This stuff ain’t for sissies!

By the way, until I began writing this, I didn’t know what a ‘wrestling singlet’ was. Without a doubt, it is the ugliest sports uniform known to man. A wrestling singlet is like wicked tight underpants... with suspenders. Horrific. There’s no way I’d ever put a full-Nelson on a guy in a wrestling singlet. No way.

But back to my Spandex. I shook out the tank top. Size-wise, it was more Tonka than tank, but I shrugged off my apprehension. I took off my sexy, knee-length sweatshirt. I took a deep breath. It was the last one I was allowed to draw for several minutes. I took that deep breath, and I pulled that Spandex tank top on over my head.

Over my head. Over my shoulders. Arms through the holes on either side.

But there, it stopped. Completely. Wrapped in a tight band underneath my armpits, it remained. It was a band of rolled steel encircling my shoulder blades and my upper sternum. I couldn’t drop my arms to my sides. The pressure was so bad that the blood stopped flowing to my head. I couldn’t contort myself in any way, shape or form to allow me to unroll the rest of that elasticized straightjacket.

I’m claustrophobic. I could feel panic setting in. I sat down on the edge of my bed, arms straight up in the air—but that was a mistake. For--opposite the bed is a mirror… and the sight of a half-naked Rubenesque woman being cut in two by polyurethane-poly-urea copolymer is not a pleasant or calming sight. I couldn’t get it on… and I couldn’t get it off. I was skewered by Spandex.

There was only one course of action. I was reminded of the Spandex-clad Caped Crusader. When Robin asked, “Where’d you get a live fish, Batman?” Batman replied, “The true crime fighter always carries everything he needs in his utility belt, Robin.”

I knew I kept a finely-honed 8 inch buck knife in my night-stand for a reason.

As I looked at the cleanly sliced Spandex tank top lying on the bedroom floor, I was not defeated. After all, the exercise pants couldn’t conquer me. I could visualize how I would look in those skin-tight leggings. No longer would I have soft, squishy thighs. Oh, no! I was about to be toned and honed!

I shucked my sexy flannel sweatpants and sat back down on the edge of the bed. I put one leg through and then the other. I drew the Spandex up—much like one would pull on tights—tights that were way tighter than any tights had a right to be. Up over my calves. My knees. My thighs. I laid back on the bed. I broke out in a sweat, because you see...Spandex ain’t for sissies! Not only was I fighting the laws of elasticity, but until I laid down--I had gravity working against me, too.

The ‘law of elasticity’ is called Hooke’s Law—named after a fellow named Robert Hooke--and it states that “the extension of a spring is in direct proportion with the load applied to it.” Therefore, if I wanted that Spandex to stretch up over my hips and my butt, I was gonna have to apply a heck of a load.

Not only was I sweating; I’d commenced with some heavy breathing, too. But by Hooke (or by Crook) I was gonna get those Spandex leotards on!

I rocked back on my shoulders and picked my butt up off the bed, and with one final gasp, tug and spurt of adrenaline, I hauled those babies up over my hips.

I was exhausted. Exhausted, but triumphant. I laid there for a minute and caught my breath, but I couldn’t wait to see what I looked like in Spandex. The mirror beckoned.

And I couldn’t move.

Seriously. I couldn’t move. Could not get off that bed. There was no bending of this body. I couldn’t sit up. Every time I tried to heave myself upright, the laws of elasticity, gravity and constraint conspired against me. It was as if my bed was a magnet and I was a huge iron filing. I didn’t know what to do.

I couldn’t stay there. No way was I going to let Steven come home to find me stuck to the bed. No way was I gonna ask Steven to help get me out of the leggings. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to help me, anyway. The door was locked.

My analytical mind kicked into overdrive. It was time to make the laws of nature work FOR me, for a change, instead of against. With a heroic show of strength and using the laws of leverage to overcome the laws of elasticity, gravity, constraint AND inertia, I rolled myself over onto my stomach and began inching myself backwards across the bed. Off over the side went my feet. My knees. My thighs. And at last, the law of gravity enabled me to bend at the hips. I got my feet underneath me and pushed myself upwards, until at last, dizzy with effort (and lack of air) I was upright.

Victorious, I spun towards the mirror… just in time to watch those Spandex pant-legs roll up on me like window-shades! It appeared as though I had kielbasas wrapped around the top of each of my thighs. Or, better yet—black rubber inner-tubes.

It came to mind then that polyurethane-poly-urea copolymer might actually BE rubber, because I’ll tell you this! When that stuff went whizzing up my legs, rolling along at 36 inches a second, it took with it every hair it came in contact with on its way up. And then some! I discovered I had hair I never even knew about. Hair that I wished I didn’t have. Hair that’s never grown back.

You think waxing is the way to go?

Try SPANDEX-ING.

It ain’t for sissies.

*************************

And just for Ali g....that photo up above is NOT me.  THIS is me.  :o)  Sheesh....(it was for illustrative purposes, only!)

With a Physique Like Mine

I joined a gym this week.

Yes, I know. It wasn’t necessary. With a physique like mine, well… one shouldn’t mess with perfection, should one?

Sigh.

The simple facts are these. I have never been petite. I’ve never been a Twiggy and certainly, I’ve never been short. In addition to being so tall that small children picnic in the shade I cast on a hot summer day, I am also considered ‘big boned’. Who came up with that term, anyway? Big boned. Hmmm. It’s not like anyone can actually tell that I’m big boned. I mean, I do wear them on the inside, as the current fashion dictates. No one has ever seen my bones to accurately label them as being ‘big’. In my opinion, that process of labeling someone by the size of their pelvis, clavicle or femur should be abandoned. Without full body x-rays who’s to know whether I’m big boned, or simply thick skinned? Hmmm?

I rest my case.

Anyway, back to my story. Since I am thick skinned, and have been nearly all my life, I’ve contemplated joining a gym in the past. I even went to the Iron Barn with my friend Terri for a couple of ‘work out’ sessions a few years ago.

There’s another term I take umbrage with. ‘Work out’. For one thing, we were inside. I don’t think there was a single window open in the Iron Barn, nor even a stall door. We were definitely ‘working in’. And the word ‘work’ doesn’t seem to suit what we were doing, either. To my way of thinking, work is something one does–not by choice, but by necessity. We don’t go to fun each morning in order to earn a paycheck. We don’t fun on the woodpile each autumn. See what I mean? We earn a salary and stockpile firewood out of necessity, not because it is particularly enjoyable. If we happen to get pleasure from our jobs, that’s a bonus. And if it transpires that we actually love throwing junks of wood from ground to truck bed, from truck bed to woodshed, from woodshed to tier and from tier to wood box, well then… we need to get a life! (Yeah, I’m guilty of that, too.)

My point is, Terri and I chose to spend an hour cycling and walking and squeezing and lifting and squatting and bending. Why?

It beats the heck out of me. I’m quite sure it was peer pressure that made me do it.

So what is it that has prompted me to join a gym now? If that first foray into the world of sports bras and Spandex was so uninspiring that I only went two or three times, why would I decide to repeat the experience?

Well, it’s like this. I’m squishy. That’s right… squishy. There’s not a single place on my body where I can poke my finger without the tip of it disappearing. No firmness. No tight abs, no tight buttocks, no tight anything. And I’m not sure, but I think my one remaining stomach muscle let go when I was lugging a new freezer out to the woodshed with Steven. I took hold of the bottom of that appliance, stood upright, and sproing! There it went, the traitor. I can’t imagine what-all is holding me together now.

Yep, I’m squishy, and if you don’t believe me, just give me a poke or a prod next time you see me. I am the perfect specimen of a woman suffering from severe Droop, and I dare anyone to contradict me.

So. I went to the gym. The trainer wasn’t there, but I’d assured her I would be fine, as all I intended to do at the start was work on the cardio equipment. (Cardio is Latin for ‘torturous sweat inducers’, in case you are one of the non-sweating populace and need a translation.) Being sure that I could do something so simple as to walk, I decided to try the treadmill.


The first surprise was that when I tried to walk on it, it didn’t move under my feet. I treaded, and the only thing that happened was that I walked smack into the front of the machine. I was pretty sure that I was supposed to stay in one place, and the belt under my feet was supposed to move. I stopped and looked closer. There were buttons on this treadmill, and lights. And instructions. I felt the stirring of hope. I can read, after all.

I pushed the button that said ‘Quick Start’, expecting to be launched into a fast-paced jog. I was there to exercise, after all, and it said ‘quick’! The belt started moving, but the pace was slower than a crawl. I poked the up arrow, and it sped up a little. I pushed another arrow, and the tread portion tilted. Excellent! I increased the speed of the machine and began my so-called ‘work out’. Legs pumping, lungs expanding, I began to move! Without going anywhere, of course…

And then it stopped. Without warning, the belt slowed and came to a rest. I was sure I hadn’t pushed any ‘Quick Stop’ button. I read the instructions again. Poked the ‘Quick Start’. Adjusted the speed and the incline. Walked my cotton-pickin’ heart out. For one minute. It stopped again. I was beginning to feel a little foolish. I wasn’t alone in the room, after all. What if I looked like a nimrod? It could happen! I’ve looked like a nimrod before!

I tried on my ‘nonchalant’ face. You know… the one that clearly says ‘I meant to do that.’ I reset the machine, walked and stopped. Reset, walked, and stopped. Four cycles of that foolishness was my limit. A girl can only wear nonchalance for so long before it begins to resemble nincompoopance.

Lucky for me, there was an exercycle right beside the treadmill. Now bikes are something I know! I’ve traveled a good part of this state on a bicycle. How hard could that be?

I sat down and positioned my bum as comfortably as possible. Like bike seats the world over, this one was also made for maximum torture. I’d learned my lesson on the treadmill, and quickly realized that this exercycle was an electronic piece of equipment, as well. So I poked a few colored lights and waited for the fun to begin. Waited for the pedals to start turning.

Yeah. I think next time I go to the gym, I’ll make sure the trainer is there.

Nincompoopance. It looks more at home on me then Spandex does.

(By the way... this photo is for illustrative purposes, only. It is NOT a photo of my butt.)