We Can Work It Out.
I have been busting my arse at the gym for the past few weeks, pushing myself harder than I ever thought I wanted to go. Long workouts comprised of resistance training and cardio circuits. I'm forcing my body to lift things it doesn't want to lift and go distances that are too damn far, and I'm finally hitting my stride.
I'm not gasping for air while I'm running anymore. I'm also not watching the clock and praying that it ticks faster so I can decrease the speed after my ten minute intervals. And thankfully, I've stopped worrying that I'm going to fly off the back of the treadmill and embed myself into the wall.
I've also noticed an increase in my strength, and not in that weight-lifting way, but in the real-life way. I can bring in more grocery bags without having my biceps burn. I can stand on my tiptoes steady enough to grab a teacup off the highest kitchen shelf.
It sounds silly, these little achievements, but they mean so much to me. It took a few months to not view my visits to the gym as "Arghh ... arduous crap!" and it's taken me many, many more months to see results from these work-week workouts. None of this workout stuff has been easy. Making the pursuit of fitness part of my intrinsic routine instead of some torturous event has been a tough road, but it's completely worth it.
Because yesterday, I had this (fictional) message on my voicemail:
"Ker. Dude. Larry here. I haven't heard from you in a while and I know your wedding is coming up. Wanted to make sure you were doing okay with your workouts and you're ready for all that white-dress girly crap. You know how I feel about giving 100% all of the time, things will work out in the end. And in this case, you'll be healthy and happy and ready to become Mrs. Sparkling or Spaulding or whatever his last name is. Keep at it, girl. I'm here for you, just like Mr. Holland was for me. Man, this message is long! I'm going to delete it now. Going to re-record it ... now."
Thanks, Larry. I'm glad you're (fictiously) with me on this.