Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

For me, the battle is not in pushing hard at the gym, or making and achieving fitness goals. No. The battle is in the Getting There. I’m happy to report that I did go on my date with Jimmy last night, thankyouverymuch. Once there, I decided to adopt a “start slow” attitude rather than jump immediately into some kamikaze C25K plan as is my tendency (and ultimate goal).

Okay, so I decided to walk on the treadmill for 20 minutes. I gave myself permission to spend that 20 minutes adjusting my bra straps and my headphones and finding the right way to hang my towel so that the next time I go (TONIGHT, PEOPLE) I will be able to be more serious about everything. Last night was not an exercise in, well, exercise. It was an exercise in sheer willpower. In Getting There. And, I went to the Jimmy. And that means I WON.

Nowhere was this start-slow plan more evident last night than when I looked down at the treadmill and my 20-minute mark coincided with 0.95 miles of distance. (Shut up. I said I was going to start slow, people.) I ask you: who can jump off the treadmill at 0.95 miles? Of course, then I passed my 1-mile mark only to see 194 calories burned. I mean, c’mon y’all. Is it just me, or would you also dogmatically devote 3 more minutes of your life to achieving even-number-ness?

Thank you.

There’s a whole new crowd at the gym now than when I was going last Fall. I do love my local, run-down YMCA and its scantily-clad 85 year olds pedaling. Chunky teenagers grunting. Soccer moms counting crunches and waiting for junior karate class to end. We are a rag-tag bunch with our combination of race t-shirts and Converse high-tops and sweaty paper towels (don’t ask). It’s like we’re all wearing one badge of bravery or another: the housewife with her Economics textbook. The Little League Coach with his knee brace. The new mother with her breast pump. Mine just happens to be an extra 150 pounds, but someday it will be a race t-shirt or a well-toned bicep.

The YMCA has got ever so much more heart than big, shiny, corporate Bally’s or Lifestyles or 24-hour Fitness. There are no fancy mounted televisions or complimentary towels or even staff members to keep watch. There’s just you, me, and Grandma B. She’s the one who’s logged 400 miles on that bike already this year. Go, Grandma B.

Sadly, I can’t find my fancy heart monitor gadgetry, and this greatly distresses me. I do love my gadgetry. Sometimes, when I’m suiting up to walk the dog around the block, I worry that I’ll look a bit like RoboCop and, in spite of everything (including that general hippy-granola vibe that I try to rock from day to day), I like that.

Anyway, the point is that for a few weeks I was using the lost heart monitor as my excuse to not exercise and guess what? Those days are over. No more excuses. I can half-ass it when I get there and take it easy and start slowly and take all sorts of other easy ways out, but from now on I will focus on Getting There.