I have had a love affair with fitness to the point that it sometimes felt like an addictive relationship. I grew up in a family in which physical activity was important. My sister and I were competitive swimmers throughout our childhood into young adulthood. We spent long summer days at our community pool after practice. We rode bikes, roller skated in the warm weather, ice skated and sledded in the winter. We had a good role model in our dad who was a Golden Gloves boxer in the Navy and actually taught his pre-teen daughters to box, after lacing up gloves, giving us our own mouth guards and head gear. She and I took swats at each other but never actually landed a punch. I say that it is a good thing I am a pacificist, since I could have developed a mean right hook.
Many years later, I took a few kick boxing class at my son’s suggestion since he observed that I needed a healthy outlet for anger and stress, since I am conflict avoidant and anger repressive. I like punching the mitts that the teacher held up in front of me, but I couldn’t coordinate my hands and feet, to kick a bag. My dad also jogged almost daily, taking our dog Hukki with him as his running companion. When he and my mom retired and moved to Florida, they both worked at their community center; my mom teaching senior stretch class (Stretching with Selma), and water aerobics and my dad helping to manage the gym, as well as handing out bowling shoes and roller skates. They were physically active into their early 80s when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and she was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Failure.
Even after that, they did what they could to keep the blood pumping and the energy moving. When I visited them in Ft. Lauderdale, I would work out at the gym, swim in the Olympic size pool and take my mom’s classes. Since the majority of their neighbors were elders, I reminded myself that if they could keep up, I could too. I did this for the decades that they lived there. My dad died in 2008 and my mom joined him in 2010.
Back at home, I joined Planet Fitness (the Judgment Free Zone) and found myself there five or six times a week, sweating it out and challenging myself to sweat more, push harder, stay longer. I used to hear my father’s voice in my head, “Come on, doll baby. Five more minutes. A few more reps.” On a sunny Thursday (June 12, 2014), I was on my way home from a ‘normal’ workout and an hour later, I found myself in the ER, having driven myself there in the midst of a heart attack.
A short while after being discharged from the hospital, I started cardiac rehab where I enjoyed visiting three times a week. Connected to a heart monitor, weighing in each time, sweating it out on various machines, under supervision, the staff were my cheerleaders, reminding me that my performance was ‘awesome’. Of course, the approval had me working harder and sweating more. At one point, I saw a bumper sticker on a car that read, “It’s not sweat, it’s liquid awesome.” I felt compelled to exude the substance, or the workout would feel like a failure. Even after completing supervised sessions, I continued my workouts, reluctantly going to the gym three or four times a week, down from five or six.
This went on until early 2020. At the beginning of the pandemic, I had GI issues and lost 40 lbs. in three or four months. I attribute some of it to poor appetite related to situational depression. In March of that year, like most of the world, I went into seclusion to prevent contracting and spreading COVID. I quit the gym and began working out at home. Once the digestive issue dissipated and I was able to go back out into the world, with precautions and eventually vaxxed and boosted, I noticed the weight going back on gradually.
In my youth, I was an itsy bitsy size 7, with a slim swimmers body. Now, at 64, I have curves and a belly, wearing a 12-14. I do what I can to love the Goddess body I have, but struggle at times. I have since returned to the gym and notice (despite the tag line) major self judgment. I tell myself that I should have more discipline with emotional eating. I find myself observing other gym members and wistfully thinking that I would like to look like that again. I agree to regular, but not obsessive workouts, tailored following a diagnosis of COPD. I beam love on myself, grateful that I have a body that still can stretch and lift and do cardio. 10 years from now, I don’t want to look back and wish I had been fit now.
“A year from now you may wish you had started today.¨ – Karen Lamb I
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Photo: [MAIN] iStock, [INSET] courtesy of author.
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