New Beginnings

I did it.  A few weeks ago the kids and I joined the YMCA that Travis uses.  I have resisted the idea for a long time.  Because it costs money that I'd rather not spend.  Because it's a good fifteen minute drive, one way, not counting prepping the kids, packing, parking, getting checked in, or walking through the parking lot at a snail's pace with two toddlers in tow that aren't the best hand holders just yet.   And also, because I naively thought that I could do it myself.  Get in better shape that is.  But it just never happened.  So finally I caved and put myself on the list of things I need to attend to.

It's hard for me to do that.  Motherhood seems to be so much about giving.  Past what is comfortable or easy.  Giving of your soul.  Your body.  Your every waking moment and intention.  Pretty much giving everything, all the time, to people that while tiny still manage to take you for all you're worth.  Every.  Single.  Day.  But as so many experienced mothers have reminded me, I am no good to my family if I am not good to myself.  (Interestingly, many of them prefaced this advice with the confession that they had a hard time doing it too.)

I decided that being good to myself would not include new clothes, manicures or massages.  It would be about my health and wellness.  Enter the YMCA.  The thing is, being good to myself isn't always fun.  And by that I mean it is sometimes completely torturous.

There is a new man in my life.  His name is Grant.  And he teaches the toning class that I blindly walked into tonight.  I should have known better.  When I mentioned that class to Travis this afternoon he suggested I start "pounding water...  now".  But like the horror movie where the girl just ignores the sound of impending doom, I sweetly thought that my adorable husband was worried about my hydration.  Ah well, if I'd known I might of backed out.  And missed out on this delightful little episode...

As it was I got there a few minutes late, so I squeezed in by the door and jumped right into a series of no less than 3,000 squats.  Which I discovered were THE WARM UP.  And it went something like this...


(Imagine Grant in his shortie shorts, tank top and head set.  Barely sweating.  Not even breathing hard.  Shouting out commands in his perky little voice while I weighed screaming in agony with the energy it would take to do so.  Yes, Grant.  The man I shall heretofore refer to as Sergeant.)


Singles!  (That refers to a set of at least 16 deep squats, honestly I lost count very early since MY QUADS WERE ON FIRE!!!)


Doubles! (Repeat, double time... did I mention the music was insanely fast?!??)


Back to singles, arms out this time!  (Right, cause what fun is working just one muscle group?)


Now hold it there for 16, 15....  (I'm thinking, "Hallelujah, we're counting down...")


Great...  Now go lower!  (Now I start to think, "This hurts too much.  How did they tell me to breathe when I was in labor again?!?"  But I can't remember.  It takes everything I have just to kinda sorta keep up.)


Singles!  Doubles!  Back to singles, arms up this time!  Now hold it and pulse for 16, 15....  
NOW EVEN LOWER!  (At this point my hips are supposed to be between my knees in a deep-deep squat.  And the rest of the class might have been doing it.  But I looked more like I was using an imaginary walker.  And I DID NOT CARE one teensy little bit.  It's called getting through.)


And back to singles... doubles...  singles arms in this time!  Now hold it and pulse...  


Singles again...  and relax!


That.  Was.  Just.  Quads.  The rest of my body immediately begged me to exit while we could still walk but after about 1.6 seconds of relaxing, which for me included visions of the ER and quads that felt like they'd been electrocuted, we moved on to abs and hip flexors, biceps and triceps, abs and back.  Each of which followed the above routine.  Honestly, every time we moved to a new muscle group I tried to beg for mercy, but I couldn't breathe.  And he didn't care anyway.  I think he regards his classes as boot camp.  Something to be survived.  Something you wouldn't be able to force yourself to do on your own.  And something I might in fact do again.  Someday.  When I can move again.

Tonight I drove home from the Y holding the bottom of the steering wheel with my thumbs.  Because I couldn't reach any higher without shaking.  In fact, I am typing this with my toes.  It's the only part of my body that doesn't hurt at the moment.  Perhaps putting myself on the list will include something a little different tomorrow.  Namely, large quantities of Icy Hot and Advil.