Tuesday Mornings

Tuesday mornings carry some weight in our little family.  My husband works a later day and is home with E until late morning.  They call these mornings, “Toast Tuesdays.”  C makes a mound of toast with grape jelly and then he and E sit together over the ottoman and eat their toast while watching Sports Center and or listening to music and dancing (because E has developed quite a knack for eating and dancing at the same time). 

My Tuesday mornings literally mean that I carry weight(s) around while doing ridiculous movements with my body.  I believe some call this exercise.  For those of you who can’t quite believe what you’ve just read, yes, you are correct in your understanding: I have begun to exercise.  But let me make sure that you understand what I mean by exercise: one half hour in which I doggedly follow the commands of a personal trainer whose training philosophy is rooted in muscle confusion.  One half hour in which my muscles and brain become so confused that they begin to do–against everything that seems logical to me–whatever they are told despite the level of pain, absurd amount of grunting in pain, and the seeming impossibility of my trainer’s commands.

Yeah, I work out.  

This was on my de-stress to do list, remember?  And I’ve done it.  Huzzah, check it off the list.  Pardon the sarcasm, but this work out thing is way more difficult than I thought it would be.

Actually, I’m finally exercising (read muscle-freakin’-confusion) because it all came together so nicely and easily, as if it just fell into my lap, as if it were providential.  A coworker friend is a fitness instructor in her time off (who has the energy for all of this!?) at a new gym.  This gym is 5 minutes from work,  has a brand new shower, and free parking.  And one of the most popular trainers in the city.  

This trainer has worked wonders for so many folks, surely, he could work wonders with me.  

I went on a tour with my friend and met the trainer and he said such wonderful, motivational things: that I could do it, that he just wanted to show me I could do it (I didn’t realize at the time that he meant 30 minutes of crushing muscle-freakin-confusing exercise…I just thought he meant plain, old-fashioned exercise.  Like a few reps with weights, a short stretch of cardio, and some fun cool down exercises, with lots of breaks for water and chatting.  That’s what I thought he meant.).  I told him (so that he wouldn’t get any crazy ideas in his head, so that he would realize that I didn’t really want to be challenged, just a little breathless, kind of fit, you know, just a nice runner’s high) that I needed more energy, to work off my stress and maybe lose some weight (because I’m a perfect 10 feminist, right?  That weight-loss is just a nice bonus.  Right?).  Just a little bit of that, some of this.  

Maybe I looked terrified or sounded non-committal (because I totally was), so he said the final magical thing: I’ll give you a free session.  One handshake later and I was out of there with plans to start that same week.  

It’s been a month (and now I’ve thrown a spinning class into the mix.  How is this happening?  Am I doing this to myself?  Am I being drugged and a maniacal sadist is dragging me to this gym?) and I still haven’t dared to watch myself in the huge mirrors.  I can feel that I’m dying, that I’m drenched in sweat, that my face is fire-engine red, that my pre-pregnancy sports bra squeezes everything out of the top AND bottom.  No need to watch this as it’s happening.   

I remember thinking during my second session I can do this, it’s not bad, this is going very well.  

During the last session, I was laughing (silently, of course, not out loud because my abdominal muscles were too contorted at the time while attempting to plank that they couldn’t be begged to engage in crazed laughter) at those thoughts and at the woman who thought those silly thoughts.  Who was that woman and where did she go?  Cuz, right now, I’m the woman yelling out I freakin’ gave birth, I should be able to this!  But I can’t.

I was attempting to do some weird type of sit up in which I had to simultaneously sit up and punch the open hands of my trainer.  Twenty times.  I couldn’t.  He said, alright, give me 5 more.  I couldn’t.  He said alright, just touch your fingertips to my hands.  That’s when I yelled, I freakin gave birth…and touched his hands with my fingertips 2-3 more times (I don’t remember how many, it was a blur.  I was confused.).  I did IT.

It feels great.  I’m serious, it feels great.  I die every Tuesday morning and my trainer makes sure that I know that I can do it.  My stress is lifting, my energy levels are up for a couple of days, my mood is drastically improving and–wait for it–I have muscles again!  This work out is absolutely intense and absolutely worth it.    

(And if anyone wants to join me–mwahaha–click here for more information and be confused and ecstatic with me.)