It’s all about exercise, right? It’s the key to happiness, a long life, and fabulously thin thighs… blah freakin’ blah. What about those of us (me) who despise running, sweating and generally pushing our bodies into states of pure, unadulterated exhaustion? Instead of taking part in such unpleasantries, I kept hoping that my body would one day simply shift overnight into Giselle “the body” Bundchen-like proportions due to my magically revved up metabolism. Then I too could flick my hair over my toned shoulders and dismissively wave away questions about my nutrition/exercise routine by explaining that I was “just blessed with good genes”.
Regardless, as a mere mortal, I came to the realization that to obtain the body I have always wanted (or to at least be able to don a bikini without grimacing), I would have to relinquish my dreams of sleep-induced lipo and actually, gasp, engage in some good old-fashioned exercise.
What is more old fashioned than the gym? That’s right, the gym: the scary, I-am-on-display room filled with odd machinery that strangely resembles medieval torture devices. No matter. I gathered my courage (along with my new pink and white Nike outfit) and headed to the gym for my meeting with a trainer to “learn the ropes” and get set up on an exercise plan.
It was doomed from the start.
“Step onto the scale, please,” the frighteningly fit trainer asked. I reluctantly complied and she immediately began moving the slidy-thing over to the left. This continued for quite a long time until the mean little arrow finally decided to balance.
“Mmm hmm.” She started to write on her clipboard.
“Uh, excuse me? That’s not right.” I pointed to the offending number on the scale. She looked at me, blank faced.
“No, seriously, I just had breakfast.” Still, no reaction.
“A lot of breakfast.” Ignoring me, she pointed to the floor where a strange little board contraption sat.
“Please sit here with your legs straight out in front of you, and reach forward pushing the board as far as you can with your fingers.” Crap.
“I’m not very flexible in my hamstrings,” I explained, reaching in vain. This admission only brought on more “Mmmhmming” and more writing on the clipboard. These first two activities were followed by a treadmill test (which I did much better on, thankyouvermuch), and then we headed out to the “machines”. I’m not going to expose you to the horror of this, as it was an experience that could only be surpassed in humiliation by the excruciating embarrassment of the next day when I returned on my own to implement the (extensive) workout schedule she had designed for me. What was intended to be an hour workout extended to two and a half, as the bulk of my time was spent wandering about, comparing the diagrams on the machines to the exercises I was supposed to be doing, and attempting to match them accordingly. Due to the numerous odd looks cast my way, I can only assume that I failed miserably. As you can imagine, this “schedule” lasted all of a week.
But alas, my thighs refused to budge, and instead continued to bulge, prompting me to attempt yet another form of exercise. A cardio class, I rationalized, would be the best of both worlds. I would have a teacher for some much needed guidance, and music for entertainment, all under the guise of “dancing”. Fabulous! I can trick myself into exercise…why didn’t I think of it sooner? It turns out the only flaw in my plan was my inability to realize beforehand that this was still, in fact, exercise and my body wasn’t exactly in what you would call “top” cardio form. Translated, this means that I was left gasping and doubled over in a sea of middle-aged men who air jabbed in perfect unison while their sweat pelted my perfectly coordinated workout outfit. On then, to plan B.
Ok, so I needed to find something that still afforded me the teacher led experience, was still exercise, but was hopefully better disguised than that cardio class. I scanned the class schedule on the gym wall.
“Athletic conditioning, no. Kickboxing, absolutely not. Senior stretch…well…no. Yoga, hmm.” I had never talked with one person who had tried a yoga class and not loved it. My only concern was my aforementioned hamstring inflexibility, but I decided to bite the bullet and try a class.
My apprehension melted away with each downward facing dog and sun salutation. The incredibly calm instructor encouraged me not to push myself, but instead seek the balance of comfort and challenge. This, she explained, is what yoga is all about: recognizing and honoring your limitations while still working toward increasing your ability. I was hooked. In addition to the increased strength, flexibility and endurance, I also noticed an, although temporary, still marked decrease in my type-A intensity. For all you fellow type-A’ers out there, you know how difficult it can be to “clear your mind”. Damn near impossible, actually. And although I can’t explain why or how (maybe it was just lightheadedness from all the deep-breathing) for a small amount of time, lying there on my little yoga mat during shavasana (essentially adult nap time) I was actually able to relax. Namaste.