I have been sweating my doopa off for two weeks. We finally joined the gym, going with the YMCA because of the many different kinds of things available to us (child care while we workout, free fitness classes, classes for the kids and so on). And, despite not being brave enough to yet tackle any machines that would help tone my arms or legs or, ugh, abdomen, I’ve been sweating on the elliptical and treadmill like a true champion.
I listen to my mp3 player while I am working out. I have a wide array of songs. I didn’t even think about the songs as I was putting them on there… I just placed songs that I thought would motivate me to keep up my speed. Sometimes I’m a moron.
There are a few songs that, despite their ability to keep my speed going, make me want to throw myself off the elliptical. Or just to stop running and fly off the end of the treadmill. Or cry in public. You know, all those things that probably wouldn’t be in the best interest of my continued attendance at the gym if I don’t want people to think I’m insane, point, stare and whisper.
It’s strange to be working very hard and be forced to think about the time in my life during which the Munchkin was conceived, carried and placed. My mind washes over memories that I don’t often willingly bring into my recall bank and I am stunned by their clarity. At times it is as if I could reach out and touch people. And so, I just pump my legs harder. I keep going, running towards something that I will never, ever catch.
And despite the emotional upheaval, well, it feels good. I finish a workout, even one during which my mind has wandered back five-plus years, and I feel like I can tackle another day. Another memory. Another issue. I’m beginning to feel whole again. It’s been awhile. And that’s a good feeling, really.
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