Life altering decisions should not be made first thing in the morning. Trust me on this.
This was the lesson I learned when my alarm bitch-slapped me out of sweet repose one morning not long ago. I writhed about until I got within reach of the clock. My body was being wholly uncooperative. The effort of turning off that obnoxious siren left me ready for a nap. I lay there like the slug I am trying to convince myself that it was alright to sleep late. After all, I had the day off. But I knew that I would face a restless night that evening unless I dragged myself out of bed at the same wakey wakey time as every other day.
I sighed into my pillow. I was exhausted. I was too tired to breathe. Finally, I willed myself to roll over. I pried open my leaden eyelids with my fingers and glared at the alarm clock (on principle). 6:03am.
What the hell am I going to do with myself so early in the morning? I thought. I waited for the rational part of my mind to answer. Unfortunately, the Voice of Reason was still snoring. In fact, the only section of my brain that was alert was the tiny piece in back that believes in Santa Claus, the Boogeyman, and World Peace. “I know! You should exercise!” it said.
Had the gears of my mind been turning yet, Rational Thought would have protested, “The last time you showed any interest in fitness, there was a different President.” But the sun was just beginning to filter through my bedroom window and the rebuttal never came.
The next thing I knew, I was stumbling into walls wearing a comfy black jogging suit (which I had never actually jogged in, but I might once have broken into a brisk trot). I plodded into the living room and turned on the television. Ten minutes, one glass of orange juice, two bananas, and a vitamin later, I threw myself into an actual workout.
By then I was awake and beaming with pride. I was exercising. Fresh out of bed. And I could keep up. I wasn’t even breaking a sweat! Too easy! I gloated.
Turns out the first thirty seconds aren’t that difficult.
Twenty minutes into the workout I was gasping for breath and fighting the desire to collapse. Previous to that morning I considered myself to be in pretty good physical condition, but by the second set of hover squats, I became aware of how woefully out of shape I truly am.
I was determined not to quit, despite the fact that my body was aching and I was in a miserable mood. The fitness instructor, with her perfectly styled hair and flawless make-up, flashed a smile full of straight, artificially whitened teeth and said, “Come on! This is fun!”
Fun? I beg to differ. Rock climbing is fun exercise. Softball is fun exercise. Fornication is fun exercise. Aerobics and weight training? Yeah, not so much.
My negative attitude was rewarded with another round of cardio that made me feel like I was auditioning to be a back-up dancer in a bad *NSYNC video. Being the type of person that trips over her own two feet while walking, the techno dance moves were a little too complicated for me. I tried to keep up the best I could. Kick, double tap, side step, sweep the arms, lift, samba, kick again, tap and curl, front to back, dip, side to side, do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself around . . .
I couldn’t have been more thankful when the fitness instructor told us to lie down on our stomachs for cool down exercises. I dropped to the floor and hugged it. It was so soft and inviting. Oh thank you, carpet! Thank you for caressing my face and giving me your sympathy. You’re my one true friend, carpet.
I swear the rug hugged me back.
I was still lying there when the program was over. I waited for that burst of energy that fitness fanatics claim you get after a workout. I didn’t feel it. All I felt was the need to take a hit off of my great aunt’s oxygen tank. And it was only 7:00am.
While it’s clear that I could never be your personal trainer, I do have a bit of advice for anyone that plans to begin an exercise program. Start small.
Stop parking in the handicap spaces.
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