Then again, I was 19.
What did I know?
I don’t work out anymore.
It turns out that I’m the jerk who can’t get it all done.
The first thing I gave up was exercise, but I was still overwhelmed and behind schedule.
I looked at my days from every possible angle.
We have a good relationship, so I didn’t keep my decision from him.
I said, “Honey, I have so many things on my list.
I have to stop being nice to you.
It simply takes too much time and effort right now.”
At first, not being nice to my husband was relatively easy.
I rationalized that the trade-off for our lack of physical intimacy would be getting more done.
But the situation was depressing.
And depression, I knew, would eventually cut into my productivity.
Plus, I started to feel bad for my husband.
A friend said, “I think you should start exercising.”
It shouldn’t have been hard.
I lived with it when I was single; at one time, it was my best friend.
My husband has never been crazy about the thingsomething about it taking up half our square footage.
Worse, I haven’t climbed aboard for five years, except to dust something behind it.
So I decided to join a gym.
When I told my husband, he wasn’t encouraging.
“you could’t even get yourself on that damn contraption, and we trip over it every day!
The gym is four blocks away.
Will you go?”
He had a point.
But my heart needs aerobics.
My body needs to get strong.
I gamble on a one-month trial membership.
I discover I don’t like the gym.
It’s beyond me how I could have spent so much time in one when I was younger.
Still, I give a shot to make polite conversation, usually along the lines of “Hi!
You bought another apartment?
Yup, we still rent.
Plus, I think his lunges are divine.
I decide to hire his trainer for a session.
Maybe I would like some tips, too?
“No, thanks,” I say.
“I can’t afford to buy right now.”
“That’s too bad,” Ted says.
“It’s a very good investment.”
After that, he shows me five different types of sit-ups.
He has me using weight machines, an ab bench for crunches, the mat.
He teaches me tricks with a big silver ball.
Even though I feel like a trained seal, Ted promises these maneuvers will tone my butt.
He shows me chest presses and some side bends that will get rid of my love handles.
As I work out, I can see my muscles responding under my stretched-out tent of a midriff.
The hour flies by.
When I get home, I bound upstairs in record time.
I put on clean clothes.
I want my husband to touch me.
I return to the gym the next day.
I could’ve been run over by a speed walker and gotten killed.
Frightened and ashamed, I slink over to the mat room to continue the work Ted began.
I mount the sit-up machine.
I can’t remember what to do.
I work on my chest, my abs, then do some lunges and make my way home.
My body feels sore in a wonderful way.
I move different limbs throughout the day just to feel my muscles.
I’m certain my jeans look better already.
The exercising thing is going so well, I decide to write about it for work.
I don’t have time.
I desperately need to vacuum (and shower).
It’s an improvement.
My life, it seems, is a balancing act perpetually on the verge of tipping over.
What’s changed is that now I accept this idea.
My foray back to the gym has made me more flexible, physically and mentally.
But everything has to give a little, even muscle tone.
What’s important is that exercising here and there has made me feel stronger and more energetic.
I’m also nicer to my husband, if you know what I mean.
Photo Credit: John Dolan
