I was in great shape when I hurt myself.
I had planned on going to the gym that night, but instead, waited for Ryan to pick me up at work and proceeded to give up. We even took out Chili’s pasta that night – such was my commitment to resignation. That night, the pain woke me up at an absurd hour and I cried and cried in bed.
That was five weeks ago.
In these weeks, I’ve given half an effort here and there on a stationary bike or a walk, but I’ve been so afraid of hurting myself again that I haven’t been in touch with my body much at all, instead choosing to abuse it with too much junk food and sitting around.
The first step at a bit more effort than usual came from volunteering at the Girls on the Run water station at the women’s half marathon on Saturday. My mom even came with me to hand out water, Gatorade, and positive reinforcement. We watched as women poured water on their heads, red-faced and panting, or briskly walking their 80-year old bodies down the road, or smiled briefly as their tutus flapped up and down, and I asked myself what I was afraid of.
So tonight I went to yoga. It was tough, and I felt dizzy enough to take child’s pose in the middle of the class, something I’ve never done before. And now I feel like I’ve hit the reset button on my body: I feel crystal clear, and have a new desire to treat it better by eating well.
Lest this turn into a pink, glittery, “think positive and everything turns out for the best!” sort of post that I hate, I’ll also say this: I used to judge people who spent most of their time on the couch, insisting that they can’t work out because their back hurts or their feet hurt or they’re busy or they’re stressed. It’s a difficult way to learn the lesson of empathy, but I believe I’ve gotten the point. It’s hard to change your life’s direction and begin a new relationship with your body. And I’ll never be in a position to make judgment calls on others.
Point taken, fate. Now let’s get to these sexy arms I’ve been dreaming about…