ARE YOU THERE ABS? IT’S ME, RACHEL.
Well, well, well…what do we have here? The consequences of my own actions — or inactions to be precise. I met the consequences of my inaction face to face just two weeks ago. I had been avoiding her — dodging the mirror and wearing stretchy waistbands for the better part of eight months. The quarantine of 2020 at the Brown household was brought to you by Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Doordash and Netflix.
Technically, Dr. Fauci didn’t tell me to eat junk food and be lethargic. But that is how I interpreted the stay-at-home order. I have been stress eating for 35 years, usually just in short bursts — like running a 5k. I had built up the stamina to take on this long, bleak, boring, marathon-like stretch of time that we stress eaters call Stress-O-lympics. My years of training brought me to the biggest stage, pitting me against past gold medal winners: global pandemic and presidential election.
As I developed and strengthened my coping routine to defeat these previously undefeated foes, I got a call reminding me of my yearly doctor’s visit.
Sad to say, it was sort of thrilling to have an appointment, even if it was one that I usually dread. Oh, pandemic, how you have changed me! So, I gladly hopped in the car and drove the 25 minutes to my doctor’s office. I happily went through the COVID protocols and waited for the nurse. And, lo and behold, she told me that I had gained eight pounds and my blood pressure was way too high. I wonder why?
I thought I had all sorts of time before high blood pressure came calling. It’s just another trait I inherited from my Dad — to go along with green eyes and being early for everything. This forced me to have an honest conversation with myself. Dad was not the healthiest of people. Part of this was dealt to him through genes, though most of it was his refusal to take care of himself. His unwillingness to change his lifestyle resulted in his death at the age of 69. I thought I had more time to ignore the health I knew I would have to fight for…but here we were, eye to eye, in the middle of the pandemic.
So, I wrestled on my sports bra and Spandex pants and went back to the YMCA with my tail between my legs. The prodigal exerciser had returned! I have been an on-again, off-again exerciser at the YMCA for the past 15 years. My last stint there was January-March 2020. I would go to a strength class twice a week and saw results and felt good. I needed the group exercise classes at the Y because I won’t push myself. Oh, how I hate discomfort. So, I walked in after not moving my body for months on end and decided to participate in a group class called Body Attack.
Like a good Catholic, I confessed to the instructor that it had been eight months since my last exercise. She absolved me of my sin and I felt better that she knew I was woefully out of shape. I perform better when people have very low expectations. If I stayed upright through the entire class, then I won.
There are various ways to be attacked during a 55-minute Body Attack class. It is primarily a cardio class, with a bit of mat work thrown in. I wasn’t sure who was supposed to be doing the attacking. But five minutes into the class I felt attacked. Why had I done this to myself? This wasn’t the first time I had taken a sabbatical from exercising and I knew exactly how it was going to feel. I knew it was going to be hard. I knew I was going to disappoint myself. I knew I would feel sad. In a shocking turn of events, my unused muscles did not maintain any sort of tone. The pushups I could do in March did not come in November. The only crunches I could do involved eating a huge bowl of Crunch Berries. I was crunch-less.
There are 11 different “tracks” in a Body Attack class. Most of them involve an unending loop of running, jumping, lunging, shuffling, burpeeing, jacking and squatting. The instructor didn’t need to tell me to modify the movements — I knew to modify for my survival. The one movement that I honestly couldn’t do was the burpee. I even hate the name — it is as gross as it sounds. It requires quickly hinging at the waist and assumes you have a modicum of flexibility in your hamstrings. Even in my younger days, I could not “jump my feet in” from a push-up position.
The instructor announced the next track was the “agility” track. My first thought was a dog agility course and I wondered if we got to crawl through a tunnel and then weave through a line of cones with the instructor running in front of us luring us with a treat. No such luck. Instead, we ran “fast feet” through a pretend “ladder” on the ground — think football conditioning. As I climbed my pretend ladder, my mind was willing but my feet were running in quicksand. I pictured myself as Walter Payton tiptoeing through the secondary but was really just a slow, middle-aged woman weaving her cart unsteadily through a crowded aisle at Meijer.
The pulsating music stopped and we went to our mats for some floor work. As I gasped for air, I was thankful to God that we got to lay down. But as we went down to the mat, we began to do pushups. While my legs appreciated the break, this reminded me that I have zero abdominal muscles and I’m pretty sure my triceps have totally dissolved over the past six months. How much time was left in this class?
Arm time ended and it was back for one last cardio burst, called the “power” track. I didn’t feel as though anything was going to be bursting unless it was my stomach through my spandex. As I took a break and gulped way too much water that would surely slosh in my stomach, I glanced at the clock and realized I only had to make it another 10 minutes.
The ending cardio burst began with slower paced music that soon crescendoed into a high-paced siren. The only thing that kept my fast feet from being glued to the ground was the image of someone literally chasing me. Maybe a class called Body Attack should really have someone planted in the class that at some point would turn on everyone and start attacking. I’m pretty sure my adrenaline could kick in and I could get some great cardio bursts if I was trying to run, jump, squat for my life. It’s just an idea. Some of us need a little bit more motivation to exercise than others.
To date, I have exercised three days per week for the past two months. The initial shock has worn off. My muscles are slowly retaking their shape. I am still modifying my moves to make it through the class, but I do a bit more each time. I returned to the Y just before the new year’s rush, so I can act irritated with the influx of new people. You know, the people that come just for a few weeks and don’t come back? Basically, me.
So the prodigal exerciser returned to the YMCA. It’s a classic story. Everyone that has been faithfully exercising there for the past six months wondered why the instructor wasn’t making a big deal over them. “Hey, I’ve been here every day for the past six months and I am in excellent shape! Why are you encouraging this lady that just shows up every once in a while for a few weeks in a row and then disappears?!” The answer to this is the same as the prodigal son in the Bible. The faithful are already going to be rewarded. But the people that come to their senses, realize they’re wrong, say they’re sorry — these are the people that need to be cheered, for these are the people that were lost but now are found.
