The Ab Machine That Almost Sent Me to Glory

Let me just say this upfront: weight loss is not for the faint of heart, the weak of core, or the easily intimidated by large, mysterious contraptions that promise abs and deliver existential crises. 

I’m on a journey - a real one. Not the kind where you buy a yoga mat and let it collect dust while eating grapes in bed. No, this is the kind where you bargain-hunt your way into a full-blown showdown with gravity, body weight, and your own digestive system.

The Saga Begins:

So, I’ve been flirting with the idea of a rowing machine. You know, something sleek, something that screams “I’m serious about fitness but also enjoy sitting.” But in the meantime, Damian and I were on the hunt for an ab device. Something simple. Something effective. Something that wouldn’t require a waiver.

I found one online. It was $50. Then $30. I watched it like it was a rare bird in the wild. After a couple of weeks of price stalking, I messaged the seller and asked, “Would you take $20?” He said yes. Boom. Bargain queen strikes again.

We drove to Gibsonton to pick it up. And let me tell you this thing was massive. Like, “is this a fitness machine or a small lunar rover?” But we loaded it into the car like champions...by we, I clearly mean Damian and the seller.

Damian rolled it into the house, got it set up, and decided to be the brave soul to try it first.

He does one ab crunch. Just one. His face? A mix of betrayal, regret, and instant core trauma. His words? OHMYFUCK!

Now, I’m no dummy. I saw the size of this beast and already had a healthy dose of fear. I asked, “Does it use your own body weight to do the crunch?!?” 

He nodded. 

I replied with my own ohmyfuck moment, because let’s be real, I can’t even do a push-up. How am I supposed to crunch all this (insert dramatic hand wave around my body) using gravity and hope?

Damian gets off. 

I get on. 

Feet on the platform

Hands on the handlebars, 

I pull down with all the strength of a woman who once had the power of an ox - back when lifting laundry baskets counted as resistance training and opening pickle jars was a solo sport. 

My breath held hostage in my lungs, a vein popped out on my forehead like it was trying to escape the situation entirely. My arms trembled, my core clenched, and my face contorted into something between determination and mild panic. And… nothing. Except a suspicious sound that made me rethink every bean I’ve ever eaten. The machine didn’t budge, but my dignity did. I farted.

We laughed. Hard. 

I tried again. 

Managed one crunch. 

Got off immediately. 

Stared at the machine like it had just insulted my ancestors.

Is this the device that’s going to take me out? Is this how I meet my maker - trying to sculpt abs?

Fast forward: I’m up to five crunches now. No unexpected noises. No tears. Just determination and a little fear. Damian’s at like 50, show-off. But I’m coming for him. Slowly. With snacks nearby.

Closing:

So here we are - me, the machine, and a dream. A dream of abs, dignity, and maybe one day doing more than five crunches without needing a pep talk. 

This journey isn’t glamorous, but it’s real. It’s messy. It’s hilarious. And it’s mine.

Stay tuned, because next time I might actually try the rowing machine. Or just sit on it and pretend I did. Either way, progress is progress.

PS: also, use the bathroom before you go because you could blow out your bladder.

You matter to me and I love you.