Know Thyself

It’s December 26, the day after Christmas. I head into town early, determined. Everyone else is returning gifts they received for the holiday, or shopping for post-Christmas deals. Not me. I’m signing up at the gym.

        It’s not part of a new year’s resolution. I don’t do those. It’s part of having enough of looking into the mirror and seeing my doughy self and the ensuing self-criticism. It’s time to up the game, time to stop fiddling around with casual walks in the park, the occasional push-up, the once-a-week yoga DVD. Besides, the gym I want has a saline pool. And a sauna. That’s why.

        The young woman at the counter is non-judgmental, walks me through the process. It takes less than ten minutes and I’m a member. The new membership comes with a free one-hour training session. I make an appointment for the following day.

        I take an inventory of my closet and find shoes, gym pants, a work-out bra and a T-Shirt. None of it is ‘vogue’, but it’ll do. People there come to work out, not to be seen. I could wear a potato sack and no one would cry foul.

        The next day, I grab the gym bag. It’s packed with towels, a water bottle, toiletries, swim suit. I’m ready.

        My trainer is young, buff and friendly. And not the least intimidating. This is not my first time in a gym, it’s been close to thirty years. But the old rules remain. Warm up with stretches, hit the treadmill, go for the burn. Three times during the session my trainer is impressed with my fitness level and he adds weights to the machine. I crack at thirty pounds.

        The training session passes quickly. The young man leaves me with some wisdom: “You’ll get to the point where you want to give up – don’t. Come see any of us at the gym, we’ll get you over it.” I don’t know it yet, but down the road, I’ll hang on to these words like a drowning rat to a life raft.

        The holidays are over, it’s Monday morning. My normal work day starts at 8:00 a. m. I calculate an hour to work out, shower, get to the office. Which means I have to leave the house at no later than 6:30 a. m., exactly one hour before my normal departure time. I’ve always been an early riser. Getting up isn’t the problem. It’s leaving the house. The part of me that’s resistant to change puts up a fight. But it’s early in the morning and I don’t tolerate arguments that early. My mother will testify to that. So, I ignore it all and stick to the plan.

        It’s dark and rainy. Rain and cold are the definition of winter in Oregon. I yawn as I drive toward town. There’s no traffic jam yet, I don’t get stuck on the bridge going into town. An incentive to leave early – less traffic.

        The gym isn’t too busy either. The trainer showed me some of the machines, but I eye them warily. Can I use them without looking like an idiot? Doesn’t matter, yet. I need thirty minutes of warm-up on the elliptical. But here, too, I fumble with the display, feeling out of place. I glance around furtively. Is anyone noticing that I don’t know what I’m doing? Nope. Everyone is focused on their own work-out. Relieved, I start walking. I’ll just keep playing around with the options and hope I don’t break the machine or myself.

        Thirty minutes later my legs are wobbly and I ‘m holding on the handle bar to step off the elliptical. I walk all the time but nature apparently doesn’t have the steep incline and added resistance. Unless you climb Mount Hood. I realize why I’ve avoided that.

        My brain is telling me that I’ve done enough. It’s only the first day and it’s important not to over exert myself. But my workout plan is detailed. I still have three reps of arm-curls, chest presses and bicep curls to complete. The weight machines are available and I push the negative self-talk away. The sweat drips into my eyes, distorting my vision. The arm-curl, named CX5000, has instructions in the form of buff stick-figures. The seat adjusts and I can’t figure out how to determine the correct height. I have two options; keep fumbling with it, risking looking like an idiot, or walking away, pretending I changed my mind, hoping no one thinks that I look like an idiot. Tough choice.
    
        I’m fond of platitudes and cliché’s, my memory banks have ample supplies and I quickly find the one I need to get me through this one. No pain, no gain. Who says it only has to apply to physical pain? So, I suck it up, risk looking like an idiot and adjust the seat to number four, because that’s what my trainer told me would be right number for my height. It just took me ten minutes to remember it.

        The good news is that I’m able to polish off a set of sixteen at twenty pounds, no problem. The bad news is that it means I have to put ten more pounds on, otherwise, I’m wasting my time. I manage three sets of ten. Then my muscles turn into Jell-O. I glance at the clock and realize it’s time to go the office. Never have I been so relieved at the passage of time. And the pressing need to adhere to every small detail of my work-out plan has evaporated.

        The plan for the first week was pretty simple. Workout every other day at the same routine, see how I feel. I spent the weekend limping, whining, freely excusing the time spent as a couch potato because “I deserved it. I worked out.” Of course, you’re not supposed to do that. Off-days are for light exercise. Like walking three miles. The monotone voice of my critic points out that I could do more. It sounds suspiciously like my mother.

        Halfway through week two I alter my routine because I’m fed up with a number of things. I like the elliptical and figured out how to start at ground level and work my way to the highest incline. I spent most of my gym-time on it. The weight machines are occupied by those with already buff muscles, I always feel like I’m getting in their way. And since I still feel like an idiot when standing next to the machine while trying to decipher the buffy stick-figures, I decide to leave the weights alone for now.

        The gym offers an app that keeps track of your gym time and has hundreds of workouts right on your phone. There are bodyweight workouts, yoga, weights, whatever you need. They are designed for either gym or home workouts. Naturally, I’m tempted by the home workouts. I shouldn’t give in to the temptation. So, I compromise: three days in the gym and three days app workout at home. I already tried the yoga and I loved that no one was there to judge me. Or someone I thought could judge me. I doubt anyone ever does judge me, to be honest. I’m pretty sure the judging thing is all in my head.

        The four-week marker is behind me. I’m thrilled. I haven’t stepped on the scale yet but my pants are getting loser and I feel better. I haven’t mastered enough courage to go into the swimming pool or the sauna. I’d also need to groom for that one and there never seems to be enough time. Then I step on the scale. Three pounds less. That’s one for the pro column.

        I stand in the locker room, arguing with myself. Silently, of course, I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention. Unable to manifest some incident that would prevent me from properly grooming myself last night – or mutilate myself enough to excuse entering the pool – I now have to reach for the swim suit instead of the workout clothes. The list is always the same: I don’t feel like it, I haven’t eaten, I might get dizzy, it might be too full. The calm, goal-oriented self has good responses: it’s Friday, you promised. You checked the pool, only one other person there. I suddenly feel tired of the argument ensuing in my head. I undress and get into the swim suit. I’d probably climb Mt. Hood right now if it meant a moment’s peace between the opposing forces in my head.
    
        There are several large mirrors in the locker room and I can’t avoid looking into it. I don’t like what I’m seeing. The worst is the difference between how I think I look and how I actually look. Pale and chubby. The weight exercises I’ve been doing at home haven’t resulted in toned arm muscles. I still have the bat wings. I know that all it takes is to add weight and increase repetitions. I haven’t been doing it long enough, still, I feel depressed enough to quit. But then it would never get better. So, I take a deep breath, avoid the mirrors and get into the pool.

        Extreme measures do bear results. After my first public appearance in a swim suit and realizing, again, no one but me was paying attention, I removed all but one mirror in my house. I’m also avoiding all public mirrors. Haven’t felt this good about myself in some time. I realize that when my brain tells me that I can’t do something it’s usually wrong. Sobering realization. If I can’t trust my own inner workings, who can I trust?

        Three months and seven pounds later I notice other changes. I don’t remember when it happened. But I no longer struggle to leave the house early to work out. My argumentative side is still there, loud and clear, but it has changed, too. It’s more supportive. It doesn’t berate me. It calmly points out that if I want buffer biceps, I need to lift more weights. Or do more sit ups. The damn thing switched sides on me. The routines, too, have undergone transformation.

        What hasn’t changed is that I’m hesitant to challenge myself further.

        But it’s hard. Especially when the universe seems determined to throw unexpected stuff at you. This week’s hurdle came in the form of a sick fur baby in need of medication. Felines are fussy creatures. And they hate medication. It’s easy when you’re at the vet because they’re afraid. But they’re not afraid of me. By the time I win the medication fight, I'm already late for work. Never mind going to the gym. No worries, I’ll go during my lunch break. Isn’t that why I chose this gym because it’s close to my office? And I’ve made up missed workouts that way plenty of times. Easy.

        Except we had a few difficult situations at the office. Time-sensitive and I need to get pleadings done. Lunch is spent munching while typing. No time to squeeze in the gym. Still, I’m not perturbed. I’ll take my rest-day today and hit the gym tomorrow.

        The next day I get up early, knowing the chores ahead and that I need to make-up the missed work-out. I’m determined to do this. My cat is determined to dodge the antibiotics. Apparently, she has hiding spots that are unknown to me.

        Two weeks later I have a cured feline, ready to pounce and play again. In sympathy with my ailing cat I, too, developed a cold. But I haven’t worked out a single day. Not even a stroll in the park. My version of guilt is a heavy weight and now that it has my full attention it lets me know what it thinks of me. Loser, hopeless are the kindest words. I’m wondering if I should just cancel the gym membership. But I don’t.

       Because this is just a slump. I’ve gotten through it. It’s now that I have the time and it’s now that I’m doing it.

        I get my gym bag out of the trunk, toss everything into the laundry. It’s been sitting in the car for two weeks and needs a good washing. It doesn’t matter that it’s Thursday, that I haven’t worked out all week. It doesn’t matter because tomorrow is Friday. Because tomorrow is not too late. I make sure my swim suit is washed, too. Then I get the epilator out and groom. Can’t go swimming without being properly groomed.

        My butt floats off the hot tub seat, the whirling water tossing me about like clothes tumbling in the washing machine. I hold on to the rim, waiting for my breathing to slow down. Thirty minutes of swimming have left me breathing hard. Not that I mind.

        I lost seven pounds and gained muscle tone. But the loss and gain columns contain more than just fat and muscles. Like the realization that, sometimes, good enough is good enough. I enjoy being content with being here, now. Not to try and be what someone else wants you to be. But to be you. To work with what you already have. The path is not to become you. You already are you. The path is to understand yourself. To know yourself. 

        Nosce te ipsum.

    P.S.: Two months after the feline incident, the FDA approved injectable, one dose, antibiotics. One less hurdle to overcome in the struggle to maintain a hectic schedule. I’m sure other things will rise to the occasion.