About once a week I look over the “
popular” bookmarks on del.icio.us and the other day I found
this page which included this quote:
“Those who think they have not time for bodily exercise will sooner or later have to find time for illness.” - Edward Stanley
Well, that slapped me in the face because it’s exactly what’s been on my mind lately.
Over the past few years I’ve tried to make gym-going a habitual activity, but moving around a lot and the consequential adjustments leave that priority falling by the wayside. Until recently.
My mother has been complaining a lot about miscellaneous aches and pains and she is at a point where although it would benefit her to work out on a regular basis, she’s simply in too much pain to bear all the movement. It’s a catch-22.
What I’m learning from her is that I shouldn’t wait that long. I am a lucky, lucky girl, being 5′9″ and weighing in at around 125 naturally, with no physical activity whatsoever. But come on, I’m going to be 30 this year and at some point it’s going to get ugly unless I start trying to maintain it. (You know that floppy flab that happens on women in between the arm pit and the elbow? Yea… it’s happening.)
So I’ve been going to the gym for about two weeks now, riding my bike back and forth. And tomorrow I’m signing up for five personal training sessions so that I can integrate some weights (and whatever else) into my routine.
I feel good that I’m getting out and moving around, but my *real* motivation is to blow off some steam on my imaginary dancefloor. See, the elliptical machine is the only thing I really do as far as cardio (plus the bike ride to and fro). And it’s my favorite because my pace is about 130 steps per minute which just about matches the per minute beat count to the music I love to dance to. Actually… getting on the stupid elliptical and the motion that ensues is really the same kind of motion I’d be getting if I were out clubbing with friends anyway, so all I really have to do is close my little eyes and get down. No one knows what the hell I’m doing anyway so who gives a crap if I look like an ass.
The only thing that would make the whole thing better is hopping on the machine with m next to me, we sync up our iPods with the same mix (starting at the same time, of course) and BOTH pretend to be at the club together, only opening our eyes at that killer climax to that awesome song we heard one time back at that rave in ‘01.
.
.
.
Yes, I’m retarded.
Oh whatever, people. At least I’m not on drugs anymore.
