Let's be clear - NO SWEATING

Trainer: “What’s that?”


Me: “Where?”

Trainer: “There, on your shirt.”

Looking down I saw a few dark spots and my mind raced through the last hour trying to remember if I’d spilled anything down the front of me. There was that water bottle that “leaked” when my arms were to weak to hold it to my mouth. Maybe I drooled when gasping for air. Nope. It was none of that. Looking pretty smug, my trainer insisted it was …SWEAT.

I hate to sweat and do just about anything to avoid it. It’s been my number one rule for working out – no sweating. First of all, I don’t like to look all gooey, and second, people tend to stink when they sweat. I’ll have none of that, thank you very much. People tell me it’s probably been one of the reasons I don’t see much progress in my body transformation, because if I’m not sweating, I’m probably not working that hard. Hmmmpf. In the past when things got tough enough to cause sweating, I quit. But, alas, in the battle to gain back control of my flabby legs, I completely forgot about my no-sweating rule. So there I was, standing in the middle of the gym, with a dark band of sweat stretching from one side of my stomach to the other. Now, that brings up an entirely different set of problems, the least of which being my stomach sticks out far enough just at the middle for the shirt to absorb the beads of sweat. Seems I’ve been able to hide my middle area to the point I completely forgot about it.

(Just to be clear, this is not me.)

Before you think I’ve turned into a sweat hog, it’s important to note that it’s 106 degrees outside. At home, as soon as the inside temperature rises to 78 degrees, I’m all over that thermostat. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I won’t tolerate 80 degrees in the house, but I’ll suffer through 106 in a gym full of stinky bodies, while sweating myself, and adding insult to injury, paying to do so. Being publicly ridiculed for wearing a bathing suit on a beach in Belize is apparently more motivation than keeping my no-sweat rule.

On the floor for the next set of fire hydrants (okay, I’m not sure that’s what they’re called), I take a couple extra seconds to tuck my shirt into the top of my pants.

Trainer: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Tucking in my shirt.”

Trainer: “Why?”

Me: “So you don’t see my fat, sweaty belly.”

I’m not sure, but I think I heard him say something like, “Oh my God,” and although he hid it well he might have rolled his eyes.