I am sitting at my kitchen table looking at my feet. I hate my toes. I have stubbed them and ignored them and stepped on sharp things with them. My feet are EXTREMELY ticklish and they are ALWAYS cold. I have stubby little toenails that you can barely see and I rarely paint them. I put socks on them and I don’t like to wear strappy sandals. I don’t have unfortunate-looking Shrek toes. I just don’t like them.
Why am I sitting here staring at my toes? I walked through the door of a gym for the first time this afternoon and was told to take off my sneakers and socks. I looked around at the stripped-down, no-frills workout area and then at everyone else’s bare feet. Suddenly I was more self-conscious of my neglected pedicure than I was of wearing spandex for the first time in public in many, MANY years.
What am I doing?
Recently I made up my mind that I needed to hit my personal “reset” button. I needed to shock my system and focus on my physical and mental well-being. I’m 45 years old and, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see parts of my body relax a little more than they used to. I am seeing the bags under my eyes and dimples in my mid-section… and back section. I feel like a sponge-cake upstairs and downstairs. I haven’t had a serious exercise routine in several years – maybe five or a decade. Maybe more.
Things used to be easier for me; I’d just stop eating fried food for a while, cut back on sugar and go for a run. No thought and very little effort maintained my jean size. Not so much anymore. Things are slowing down as I am “maturing” and, well… you know.
So, like all good social media addicts, I turned to the Magic-8-Ball of Facebook for help: “I am thinking about joining a gym… possibly in need of a trainer… looking for suggestions… AND, GO.”
It was like a feeding frenzy! Suggestions and links and pictures and videos flooded in. Some were reasonable and supportive, while others were downright intimidating. I can tell you, with no hesitation, there are plenty of gyms, trainers and open classes, groups, teams and healthy people on our little sand-spit.
I’m not really a gym-class person, and I have an odd work schedule, so randomly picking a gym or classes isn’t an option for me.
Finally, after consulting dozens of comments and personal messages, I quietly reached out to an old friend of mine who seemed to have the most enthusiastic clients.
“Of course I can help you!” he said. “Can you come down Wednesday afternoon? It’s really quiet and I can work with you directly.”
“Sure. What do I need?”
“T-shirt, shorts, sweats – whatever you are comfortable in. Don’t worry about gloves, I have them here.”
“Great! See you then!” Umm… gloves?
Yes, I had verbally agreed to work out at a Mixed Martial Arts gym without having a clue what I had signed up for. BUT – I have known this guy a long time and there is something to be said for trusting your “coach” and committing to a decision. (And his gym is reasonably close to the hospital in case I hurt myself).
Mats, mirrors, punching bags, blocks, weights and a sparring ring…that was it. Nothing fancy, but I was assured of a hard workout – which is exactly what I got. I was put through a routine of jumping jacks, pop-ups, planks, Russian twist-crunches, side-planks, sparring, kicking, jumping, mountain climbing and a few other things I cannot remember the names of. I was red-faced and sweating and panting for an hour. And it hurt. And it felt good. And I couldn’t tell my left hand from my right and I couldn’t count and I wobbled and I wanted to fall down.
I was trying to balance on my sponge-cake butt and attempting crunches with my feet in the air when my friend leaned over me and said, “There is a place to puke outside. You might puke.”
“Good to know.” (For the record, I did not “puke.”)
I could barely walk at the end of the hour, I could not twist the top off my water bottle, and I no longer cared about my toes.
There were a handful of other people who were doing the same workout. As far as I could tell, we were all close to the same age. One of the women introduced herself to me with a smile, and offered some encouragement. She had small feet with cheery light blue-painted toenails. I know this because I was bent over still trying to compose myself.
I asked if it ever got easier. She just smiled and wiped the sweat from her face. The others gave me suggestions about post-workout recovery drinks and continued to give me encouraging anecdotes about their personal workouts.
I felt physically exhausted on my drive home. I was a little light-headed, like I had a buzz, and I definitely had a smile as I rolled down the windows to keep them from fogging up.
So here I am, sitting at my kitchen table looking at my feet. I have a bottle of dark-blue nail polish and I am pretty sure that bending over is going to hurt. There is a yoga class tonight, and I have a feeling that’s going to hurt more – but not for long.