The gym class I take regularly continues to school me. Usually, I stand in the corner, out of the frame of the mirror. Today, I somehow found myself in the center, in full view of myself. *bleah*
I like the warm up. Lunges, squats, swinging arms, all set to loud, fast music. My brain fog clears up and I’m pleased with myself for just making it in. Bar= very low.
And that’s the first ten minutes.
Then, the teacher gets into whatever series of calisthenics she does, and there’s an inverse ratio between my stamina and the vigorousness of the sets. I’m still the only one who stops before any set is complete.
I’ve done all I can to set myself up for success, by selecting the lightest weights (two pounds) and the thinnest bands (peach color). When she gives us the option of increasing the difficulty by, say, adding a jump at the end of something, I don’t. I know my limits.
I’ve gone enough times that she knows my name and today, called out to me not one, not two, but three times, “Come on, Diane, you can do it!”
Oh, I can. Might not be today, though.
We’re doing some arm raises and side stretches, and I can see my short T-shirt lifting up to reveal a white, soft mid-section. Note to self: Nobody wants to see that; wear longer shirt next time.
By the time we reach the end of class and we’re cooling down, my hair has fallen out of the ponytail and is hanging in my face, my eyes, clinging to my perspiring brow. Everything is disheveled.
I am done, so done. At least I’ll be able to sleep tonight, I remind myself.
My friend Wendy encouraged me. “You’re getting better since you started,” she said. That vibrated in my head for a long time after.
I can do this. I can do this. Slow, but I can do this.
One day, I’m going to look a little more like our teacher and a little less like me. She’s all grace and elegance. I’m just sweat and struggle.
For now. *sigh*