I was recently more than a bit disappointed when I pulled on my fave pair of jeans and found them, errr, rather more snug than I generally prefer.
I’d had a minor set back in the form of a pulled hamstring, which followed quickly on the heels of a recurring shoulder injury. Those are stories for another day (or maybe not… the hamstring one is way too embarrassing!).
My workout schedule was suffering.
I’m a dedicated six-day a week girl. Forty-five minute pre breakfast cardio (provided real life doesn’t intervene, in which case it’s post breakfast!) followed by forty-five to sixty minutes strength training in the afternoon. My workouts had fallen off to three, maybe four days, and I was definitely not able to withstand the length of time I usually work out for.
I was becoming despondent. Gym time not only keeps me slim and firm, but more importantly it keeps me SANE. To say nothing of keeping the slightly crankier aspect of my personality at bay. Yes, I admit it I can be a bit, ummm, let’s go with snappish.
My family was really starting to notice a difference in me… not physically, at least not that they were willing to admit aloud, but certainly with my frame of mind. I had to do something and fast. I could see that slippery slope, but was determined to avoid the inevitable slide down it.
I sat down with my trainer, or as my kids call him, my guru, and spilled my guts. I confessed that my attitude toward the gym was becoming distorted. If I couldn’t be there five or six days a week, then what was the point? If I couldn’t push enough weight to break a sweat, then why bother? I even told him the ugly truth of how my normally healthy diet seemed to have fallen completely off the rails. I dropped my head down onto his desk. “What am I going to do?” I moaned.
He sat and stared at me silently for a moment, his expression changing from mild sympathy to one that can best be described as befuddled.
“What’s the race?” He asked. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. I just wanted my jeans to fit properly again, and if I’m being perfectly honest, to stop being such a bitc… er, I mean snappish.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” I was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had an unseen earpiece in and was actually on the phone with someone else.
“Stace, there is no finish line in this game… this is a lifestyle, your lifestyle. It’s what you do. This is who you are. There will be ups and downs on the scale, and even with your fitness level, but there is no finish line.”
I picked my head up and beamed him a smile. He was right (he generally is). I wasn’t trying to be accepted as a fitness model, or even enter a body building competition. It’s just what I do, for all the myriad of reasons I do it. I will stay fit and healthy for the rest of my life, and there is no finish line.
Beyond being a gym enthusiast, I’m also a pretty avid writer (of fiction and rather sassy opinions) and photographer. Clickety click over here www.staciacarlton.com