I’m going to write and post this while the emotions are still fresh. As are the tears. Bear with me, friends. I’m not feeling funny this evening. Hopefully, though, you can get real with me. That’s what this journey is about, after all.
I went to my first “regular” workout class. The last two visits it was just me and the trainer learning the movements. This time, I joined the group. I dreaded it all day, knowing how out of shape I am. When I walked in, ‘Satan’ came bopping up and introduced me to some of the other people in the class. By far, I was the fattest, most out of shape person in the room. Every part of me screamed, “Run! Run away!” But I sucked it up, slapped on a smile, and shook hands with all the healthy, trim people. Then I saw the Workout of the Day. My heart fell into my stomach. I am unable to DO any of those movements. What the hell am I going to do? And how embarrassing is it going to be when I can’t do this, right here in front of God and everybody? And we have to do 5 rotations of them? That voice saying, “Run!” got louder. And it brought some tears to my eyes. How did I let myself get like this? All the women in the room were slim and muscular. I imagined them rolling their eyes at the fat girl who couldn’t hang with them. I compared myself to every woman in the room, and came up short. And very round.
This is a common issue for me, this comparison thing. When
So the workout begins, and ‘Satan’ comes over. I can do the weight lifting move, even if there isn’t much weight on my bar. I’m actually pretty good at it. It’s the next two activities that have me feeling nauseous. Hang from the bar and pull your knees to your chest 10 times? I can’t even hang! So he has me hang as long as I can (about 15 seconds, ugh), then do sit ups. With an exercise band for assistance. Not embarrassing, or anything. Next, I am supposed to run 200 m and start the rotation of weights and sit ups again. RUN? And not away, as I’d been planning. Holy crap. He scales it back to 100 meters, and shows me how far it is. Sighing with relief, I take a deep breath and begin. In my head is one sentence. I begin repeating it like a mantra. A prayer. A hope.
I. Will. NOT. Quit.
I jog it the first and second round, wheezing and puffing like an eighty year old lady. With every slap of tennis shoe to earth, I am repeating it. I will not quit. The third round, I jog half and walk back. By the fourth I am strictly walking, still gasping for breath. But I will not quit, dammit. With tears in my eyes, I start the final round. Weights. Hang. Sit ups. Run. Done!
I finished all five rounds with 30 seconds to spare. ‘Satan’ comes over and congratulates me, high fives me for doing all five and not giving up, and I start to feel a little bit guilty for calling him Satan. Then he tells me the “Cash Out”, or ending exercise, is 25 push ups and that feeling fades instantly. I do wall push ups, because raising this bod from the floor just wasn’t happening.
Driving home, I admit I teared up several times. I felt so inadequate and disgusted with the state I’d let my health deteriorate into. I take some deep breaths and try a new perspective. I finished. I didn’t leave. I Did Something About It.
This is not about anybody but me. I’m not in competition with