Recently I’ve started going to the gym. By recently, I mean my first gym day was last Tuesday. I’ll be going two to three times a week, and my boss recommended a personal trainer. The trainer is amazing and uses plenty of metaphors. Last week I learned that taking care of my body is taking care of a small village in which there is only one well.
I’ve also been biking to and from work when I can, although the weather hasn’t been cooperating lately (I don’t mind biking in the rain, but not for a half hour before starting work). In the summer, I can also take long walks with the husband and the two dogs. In the winter I’ll be less mobile because I’ll be at home cowering under blankets with the chihuahua.
Losing weight isn’t my end goal, though that would be nice. Hopefully proper weight training will take care of, as the trainer calls them, my “aches and pains.” I have been in shape exactly 0% of my life and all of this fitness crap has always been more theory than reality.
On Tuesday we did lower body. My trainer is very reassuring; “At first you go slow, so that you don’t hurt yourself. You know you can do it, but you shouldn’t push yourself. Yet.” I recalled all the times my husband has complained about lower leg day and thought “This isn’t so bad.” Until the next day when I rolled out of bed and why does it feel like someone punched me in the gut??
In high school, gym was when boys whipped top-speed dodgeballs at my boobs and marks were based on performance instead of effort. Many years later, I think I’ve finally moved past my fear of exercise; maybe this time I’ll make it.
I look forward to the day I can lift more than my 7 pound dog without hurting myself.