Fun With Play-Dough

My daughter, like many six-year-olds, has a bit of a lazy streak.  While visiting our family in Holland, she notices how much walking is involved in daily life. My family members don’t jump in the car for every little errand, and when they do, they park far away and still walk for a long time.  This is not because they are so health conscious; rather, it’s a behavior born out of necessity.  There is no parking close to anything, and the traffic is a mess.  “You know, I once had an uncle who walked all the way from the Russian-Polish border back to Rotterdam”, I remark when she complains.  “We are only going to the supermarket”. My daughter looks at me as if to say: “and this has something to do with me how?” I guess she’s still too young for the ‘you-don’t-know-how-good-you-have-it’ speech.

            She comes by her complaining honestly.  My husband, who never fails to mention how much he does at the gym (he works out, big deal) refuses to carry her because now that she weighs over 50 pounds, she is too heavy.  He will hurt his back, he pulled a muscle, or he is just too tired from sitting in his office all day.  Besides, his knees hurt. And here I was thinking that going to the gym made you healthier.  Of course, going to the gym does nothing. I’ve been to the gym many times.  It’s actually doing something while you’re there that makes a difference.  And, apparently, when you do the right things while you’re there, it gives you the right to complain about sore muscles and such.  I admit, I’m a little jealous; I, too, want to be able to say: “My legs hurt! Because I worked out! Aren’t I a good girl?”

            It’s not as if I never do anything; I’ve owned and used a treadmill for years.  I don’t use it for running though; I walk. Running would be much more impressive, but, as far as I’m concerned, extremely undesirable.  When I walk, I can focus my thoughts on nothing in particular. I can think about the book I just read, or about the shopping list I still need to write.  I like to make up stories, sing along with my Ipod, daydream; whatever strikes my fancy that day.  It is also a time to kind of clear my head and get rid of any cobwebs I might have been cultivating.  Nonetheless, as healthy as this all is for my psyche, it doesn’t do all that much for my physique.  I am one cheesecake away from being a fat slob.

            Recently, my friend and I decided we would start working out together. Our mothers have taught us that our bodies are temples and need to be treated as such.  Besides, with kids in school we have run out of excuses.  Full of good intentions, I call the Gym and I make an appointment with one of the trainers.  She gives me a fitness assessment.  She pinches, pokes, and measures; the scale at the gym is unforgiving and tells me that I weigh six and a half pounds more than I do at home.  I manage six push-ups.  I agree to come back in two days and she will set up a workout regimen for me. 

To celebrate taking this important first step, I decide to try out one of the machines right away. I must say, I’m a little afraid of these machines.  They seem to have a mind of their own, and, what’s worse, they seem to have opinions.  “Look at her”, I imagine them saying to each other, “what is she doing here? I hope she’s not planning to touch me.” Okay, I probably have a little too much imagination for these types of situations, but the truth is,  there are few things that could make me feel more out of place.  Except for the Dallas-cheerleaders Christmas party, maybe. I finally settle on an exercise bike; it seems the least threatening, and besides, I know how to ride a bike.  Thirty minutes later I walk, very slowly, to the car.  Who knew riding a bike would hurt this much? The next day, I can barely move.  My body feels nothing like a temple; instead, I resemble one of those sandbags they use when the floods threaten. Or maybe a cardboard shack on the beach after a Tsunami.  You get the point.  Still, I am a little proud of myself: I made important progress.  Now I’ll have to go back.  That is, after all, the down side of exercise: you have to keep doing it, again and again.  I sincerely regret every bad thing I’ve ever eaten, and wonder for the millionth time: did they have to make the M&M’s kosher?  If I want to truly improve myself, old habits need to make way for new neuroses. Will my thighs finally get smaller? Will I fit into that black dress?  Will my unbearably high fat percentage shrink?  And, most importantly, will I stick with it?  We’ll have to see.  Rome wasn’t built in one day, my mother always said, and neither are temples.  Especially when that temple is mine.