Which was okay, because I was going to Nemo, a sports club, to work out. So a warm up walk on yet another rainy and cool afternoon was all good.
But wait--she's on vacation! A writing retreat! She should be at the pub. Chatting up the locals. Exploring the beaches.
Why on earth the sweaty indoor gym?
Well, some people drink, some smoke, and others meditate.
As far as needs go, it's not a bad one. It's good for my head. And it doesn't hurt that working out helps keep those ever-encroaching-exponentially-expansive forces of gravity at bay.
According to the web site, drop in visitors were welcome at club Nemo.
According to Yvonne, the gorgeous Mia Hamm/Katie Taylor look-alike staffer behind the desk, this was not true.
Even when I explained that I was just in town for a few weeks and needed a place to work out.
She apologized profusely in that typical way the Irish have of saying sorry like 5o times, when really, 17 times would suffice.
Then I pulled this one:
But I came all the way from Washington DC just to work out in your club.
Amazingly, this seemed to work. It was either that, or the postal look in my eyes--because Yvonne did a quick 180.
"Well, maybe we can let you in just this once."
Her co-worker did not like the idea and went through a litany of reasons--insurance, the boss, policy--that I should not be granted access.
But Yvonne seemed prime to win this one.
"She just wants to use it on a trial basis, so let's let her in."
"Ah, that's not a good idea, Yvonne"
"Come on, it's just this once. Go on. Go on and take a spin. On us. We'll get you sorted for the rest of the visit when you're done."
Thank you, Yvonne.
Sweaty and calm after my workout, I returned to the desk to see what we could manage for the remainder of my stay.
Turns out there was no way to get back in without paying a three month fee or talking to the big boss man himself, which Yvonne, in spite of her clearly super human physical attributes, that in my mind, could accomplish just about anything, was loathe to undertake.
But--as smart women are apt to do--Yvonne and I hit upon the same solution at the same moment:
Gym classes, offered to the public.
I haven't taken a gym class since high school, but given the circumstances, this seemed like a fine option.
So up I signed.
Did I pick spinning?
Did I pick aerobics?
Did I pick swimming?
I chose Boot Camp for women.
Well, maybe it had something to do with the fact that Yvonne was teaching it and by now I had a serious girl crush on Yvonne.
So next Tuesday it is. I can't wait to see what kind of drill sergeant Yvonne will be.
As for the other class members, I'm a bit worried. Will I be embarrassed by the 30-something lithe and fit Celtic warriors (they are Celts down here, right? Or are they Vikings? This whole tribal thing is so confusing to us pathetically simplistic Americans).
Or maybe I will indeed run laps around those pasty-face, beer swigging, alcohol-engorged women, restoring some American glory to our badly damaged world image as super heroes.
Bah. I just hope I don't pass out during kick boxing and make an ass of myself.
And that Yvonne still respects me in the morning.