03.04.06

Holy Lactic Acid, Batman, do I ever hate to exercise.

Like with the intense hatred of a thousand burning suns, this is how I hate you, exercise.

Exercising calms some people down, helps them release tension, and I have to admit that once I am done exercising, I do feel better. But whilst I am in the throes of the act, I experience an anger so deep that you�d better pray you aren�t this week�s step instructor. I curse and mutter under my breath from beginning to end. While attempting to complete Pilates sets, my eyes will close and roll back into my head and I will go to a deep, dark place in my soul where white-hot fire brands are being applied to the skinny bitch in the front row demonstrating perfect posture and positioning and daring to SMILE while doing it.

Meanwhile my body is straining and sweating and just not co-OPERATING here, body! Like, get with the PROGRAM, DAMMIT!

Exhale.

If I�ve got a People mag and an elliptical, I can go all day. Yoga, great, love it (I�m very bendy). But anything that requires terms like �reps� and �sets� can bite my big ol� butt. I�ve never had a personal trainer before because a life sentence for murder is just not something I�m looking for now, thanks. And that, my friends, is exactly how a relationship with me and a trainer would end. Any situation where phrases like �Give me two more� are enthusiastically uttered when I already feel like my brain is about to explode and I have a heavy metallic object in my hands does not bode well.

The worst is working out at home with DVDs or tapes. AGH! The unmitigated SMUG! The relentless CHEERFULNESS! (I�m looking at YOU, Mari Windsor.) And who are these smiling CLONES that you find to demonstrate the moves? It�s like a batch of Stepford Wives created by Richard Simmons.

It seems to me as though the level of tolerance I have for exercise directly correlates with the shape my body is in. There was a time, I think, long, long ago when I actually looked forward to working out--to pushing myself a little further each time. I liked the way it felt, liked to watch my muscles flex as part of the incredibly cool machine that is the human body. I really believed that I was making a difference. But lately, exercising (in addition to making me a danger to all personal trainers and DVD players everywhere) leaves me feeling frustrated; like an inside joke that I�m just not getting, like it�s hopeless.

I don�t know my body anymore. I have a closet full of clothes that might as well have belonged to a stranger, they�re so far from fitting. An entire wardrobe. Gone. Poof. Just like that. Clothes that I loved. Clothes that I had emotional connections to. And I keep (kept?) saying that I would fit into them again. But you know what? I really don�t know that I will. The distance from here to there seems too great. It�s so much easier just to eat those cookies. To turn off the early-morning workout alarm. To sink further into ambivalence and self-loathing.

And now we�re talking about trying to get pregnant again this year. So then there�s the whole �why bother if I�m just going to get fat again?� And suddenly I realize that here I sit. I am at a critical point in my life where, if I don�t fight the fight now, I�ll be fighting a much, much harder fight later on. My metabolism is heading farther south by the minute, right? If I don�t loose this weight now, at least some of it, I will get pregnant again and gain even more. So instead of 15-ish pounds to loose, it will be 40. And then? If we have another baby? You see the pattern here, right?

I know that in light of all the things to worry about in the world right now, this seems really silly and insignificant. But the truth is, like many misguided women, a lot of my feelings of self-worth are tied up in my weight. It�s there and it�s not going away. And I want to feel good about myself. Like, really take-on-the-world, strong-and-healthy, love-my-body, Special-K-commercial good about myself.

And I�m starting to get really afraid that I�m just not going to be able to do it.

before ~ after