If you’ve watched Oprah at any point in the last 20 years, you know that everyone from the O to her diet/life expert Dr. Oz say that if you hit the gym often enough, it will no longer feel like flesh peeling torture to get yourself there.
Believe it or not, today, after almost 8 sessions over a 5 month period, it happened.
I left an enjoyable lunch with friends (at which I stuffed myself: gorged on Coke cola and chocolate canoli) and was driving home. I had an extra hour in the afternoon and I knew that one of my two preferred classes, “body firming” was going to start in about 30 minutes.
“Drive home, “my brain said. “30 minutes is way too early to be at the gym. Besides, aren’t you really tired?”
“Let’s go,” a small, calm, rationale, previously 100 pound part of me said. “You have a book in the back you can read after changing out of your work clothes.”
The red COACH bag stuffed with my shoes, shorts, and other necessities started riding in the trunk of my car when I knew that going home to change and heading back out the door to the gym was a nonsensical proposition.
Magically, I found myself driving down the road to the gym. I went upstairs, leisiurely changed my clothes, and tried a new machine (new to me) called an ‘elliptical’ which apparently is the cardio jolt to the treadmill/stair climber I’ve been waiting for. Who knew all this time it was waiting for me, patiently, as I rushed by to change and then dashed into a step class or circuit training?
The minute class started and I put my hand on the weights, I was glad I had come.
And apparently this feeling, this small tiny rush, is what will give me the strength to come next time, when what I really want to do is sleep on the couch.
At least a part of me.
That is getting progressively smaller in proportion to my expanding biceps.