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| My new Frienemy |
I've done a lot of great things for myself over the years. I quit drinking and smoking, I gave up gluten, and I now eat a 95% whole foods diet low in grains and sugar (PMS week chocolate excluded). All these things were done gradually, when I felt ready to do them. I don't rush into things because it always leads to serious inner rebellion. This has happened several times when I've tried to add exercise in because 'That's what healthy people are supposed to do." I lost my motivation because I wasn't doing it for the right reasons, and that was always my downfall.
Anyway, as we all know by now, I was sitting in my puddle of emo recently, feeling oh-so-awful about myself and lamenting about how I never have time to do anything for me. I whined to people, I cried into my pillow like a brokenhearted pre-teen, I got angry at the world. I sang the same song over and over to anyone who would listen: Boo-hoo, my life is so hard. I have three kids and two have special needs and I do everything for everybody else and I try my best to lose weight and it never works because I have hormone imbalances and a thyroid that hates me and I try to do nice things for myself but all I feel is stressed out, and blah blah blah, cry cry cry.
But eventually this grotesque display of self-pity stirred something within me. By Wednesday I had finally had enough of the sadness, the anger, the excuses.
So I went out and spontaneously signed up for a gym.
For a year.
And I was there the very next morning with my shoes and my water bottle and my workout clothes, ready to tackle my demons, physical, mental, and emotional.
Anyway, I've never really been a gym member. I was ever so temporarily in early 1996, before Intrepid graced my stomach and I got too sick and too tired to trek down to the gym for several months. After that, I developed a phobia of sweaty skinny people. As a fat girl, there's a serious confidence issue when faced with size six sorority sisters looking fabulous as they run like gazelles on the treadmills beside me. I had to get over that. I think I have. In fact, I've come to a few key realizations in the last couple of days at the gym:
- I'm ridiculously out of shape. No, for realz.
- I'm doing more than just losing weight; I'm breaking down the walls of fat I've been hiding behind. I kept them up for so long because a part of me felt safe behind them. In a way, I was trying to protect myself from the world. But I'm stronger now. I don't need them anymore.
- Other people make the elliptical look nice and easy, just getting on her and riding her like that. It turns out that's a lie. She's not easy at all; she's nun-like, nun-ish. She's a nunliptical. I'm sore all over after trying to ride her for 20 minutes on Wednesday. I think we could have something special, but we're going to have to do some serious work on our relationship.
- I have far more reasons to get healthy than I do excuses not to get healthy.
- Joining a gym costs money, but it also costs if I don't invest in my health today. Eventually I'll likely end up with various treatments, medication and visits to specialists. Because of my weight and hormonal condition (I have PCOS), I'm a prime target for several serious health conditions, including type 2 diabetes, heart disease and cancer. I don't want to be told in 10 years that I'm really sick and then wonder why I didn't do something about it sooner. Right now my body is a walking timebomb. This isn't about vanity, it's about living to see my children grow up; it's about being healthy enough to be an active grandparent down the road. I owe it to my boys to be at my best.
- I do not - and likely never will - look good in spandex. No spandex for me, ever. Yoga pants all the way. And my black ones had better be clean because oh my god, if I wear the grey ones I might come down with a case of Sweaty Ass Syndrome.
- As it turns out, I'm very concerned about the amount of sweat penetrating the base of my sweet cheeks.
- I only had the grey yoga pants today. Major 7 a.m. panic. I may or may not have tried to subtly check for signs of Sweaty Ass in the mirror a few times during my workout.
- By the way, checking yourself out in the mirror at the gym is never subtle.
- I've spent way too much time putting other people before me. As a stay-at-home-mom, I flex and stretch my life to fit the schedules of everyone else in the family. It's time to make me a priority. I should have always been a priority. What I failed to realize for along time is that I can be good to me and also good to my family.
- Coming home from the gym and yelling, "Honey, quick: I need six eggs and a pound of bacon!" may become commonplace. The protein cravings are overwhelming.
- I love working out. I missed working out. I love the endorphins, the sweat, the zen-like trance I get into when my heart is pumping and the music's going and I'm in my zone. I leave the gym feeling happy, accomplished, and far less anxious.
- Most importantly, the gym may very well help The Maven get her groove back.*
*May or may not include a case of Sweaty Ass.**
** Okay, probably will including a case of Sweaty ass.