I hate exercising. I always have. I always will. I had a brief love affair with the swim team in high school, but that was it. My only shining moment with anything more physical than madly piling finds into my arms at a children’s consignment sale.
So I’ve never rocked it as a specimen of physical genius. Just tried to keep the sweets-eating in check and hide my inherited thunder thighs to the best that wide-legged pants will allow.
But then life happened. I birthed two babies. My mom died. I got hooked up with an anti-depressant that was simply the wrong match for me–and most definitely the wrong match for my waistline. It got ugly, very ugly.
The time had come. I got serious and booted 30 lbs. to the curb.
I felt good. I felt powerful.
I got lazy. 8 lbs. crept back on board. Darn cursed pounds.
I’m all for the flux and flow of our bodies, and there is no pressure to be a certain size coming from a husband or a scale. Dr. J actually threw out our scale over a decade ago because he couldn’t handle the “drama it sparked”. As if I could ever be dramatic.
But the thing is I am happier when I’m down these last 8 lbs. I have more energy. My clothes fit better. My cardiologist yells at me less. I am not as cranky. In short, it’s a win.
I have also learned the creep-up is scary for me. One day, the chic undies are tight-ish, the next they are a pinching vice I have to pry off every time I visit the toilet. Super-fun and time-efficient. If I permit myself a few pounds, I might as well just move into the permanent 4XL sweats and set up shop. My weight gain is the sneaky kind.
So it was time to cue up my beloved Jillian and get to work.
I popped her in my DVD player. She looked fit and perky. I was instantly irritated.
Crap. I could do this. I could give it at least a minute, right? I wasn’t ready to commit to the full workout, but I could at least start it. So I did. Bring on the jumping jacks because I was there.
And then somehow, 1 minute became 4 1/2. And then it was 9, and then 13 and then I was at 19, and then by some insane stroke of magic, 1 minute had become 25 minutes and the workout was done.
And then I couldn’t lift my arms above my waist or squat to pee for the subsequent 2 days, but that’s another story…
The point is, I did my workout. I exercised. I finished it. I made myself stuff down the “my kids make this so hard” mantra in my brain. I accepted the fact that I would leave the house with sopping wet undone hair and be five minutes late to wherever I was going. And then I made myself do it again. And then again. And now I make myself do it 3-4 days/week (depending on how much cleaning I have to muddle through on a Saturday) for 25-32 minutes (depending on which particular torture session I gear myself up for).
Is it working? My pants fit better and my muffin top appears to rage at me a bit less. Not instantaneous results, but I’ll keep going. Because the thing is, I’m pissed that all my hard work was back-pedaling. I’m pissed that all those glasses of wine I forewent and all those hellacious bicycle crunches I pushed through seem for naught. You see, this Mom of the Year doesn’t sweat for fun. If I’m going to exercise, I’m going to earn my cute skinny jeans and rock them.
My exercising will never be a thing of glory. Very few matching pink capri pants and sports bra combos and very few post-workout prolonged relaxing stretch sessions. Something tells me Maria Kang’s film crew won’t be beating down my door to beg me as an extra any time soon. Shoot.
That’s okay. Everyone’s got different goals and different ways to get there. While some so admirably slam it out in gyms and beat the pavement, I’m just going to keep pushing aside the clutter on my bedroom floor and making room for Jillian.
Bring it on, friends. Let the 1 minute become 25.
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