A long time ago, the gym was my sanctuary. I used it to zone out.
And I did.
I zoned out like I'd never been able to zone out before.
I'd put my earphones in, and walk through a tunnel; there was no one around me, behind me, or in front of me. It felt as if I were alone; it felt as if it were quiet, and the world seemed still-
(despite the loud-as-I-could-get-it music blaring in my ear drums, and the clusters of people around me.)
I dropped my kids off at child-watch, and my things into a locker- I found my playlist, placed the earbuds in my ears, and purposefully walked to 'word-free-zone'.
Nobody, (yet everybody) was around me. I heard nothing but the words I chose to hear, and it was bliss.
A long time ago, I was a home school mom desperate for an outlet.
Going to the gym was less to do with getting fit, and more to do with staying sane.
I loved how I felt after several months of working out diligently and emphatically.
(I still didn't love how I looked, (Will I ever?)
Now I stay home with one, teeny tiny curly headed 3 year old while her older sisters get their education from less frazzled (but maybe not by much) educators.
Her name means "weary". And I am. So weary.
But so blessed and thankful and incredibly amazed at how much I love being her Mommy.
She's fun, and sweet, and precious, and amazing. And she's busy, and mischevious, and exhausting.
I don't need the gym as much as I did a long time ago, though a long time ago isn't very long ago now that I think about it.
But I do need the gym as much, or maybe more than I did not-so-long-ago.
I'm turning 30 in a month. One month. In one month, I'll be 30. For the past 9 years I've looked 30 up and down and said to it: "HAH! I'm not afraid of you!"
In the past year, I've realized that I'm like that little yappy dog that barks at a great-huge-dogs ferociously;
a whole-lot-of chatter without a bit of strength to back me up.
30 scares the dog-poo out of me.
THIRTY is that number that folks talk about like it's relational to the plague.
30 brings cellulite, and saggy boobs, and perma-spare-tires, and eye baggage, and ....... and...... and......
IT ROBS US of the last morsel of youth we once thought we were going to keep forever!
That's what they say anyway. I know nothing of this cellulite or saggy boobied eye baggage.
Nothing at all.
But just in case; for real this time, I'm going to make it to the gym. I've got my 'bad hair day' hat stowed away in the passenger seat of my mom-van. I've got TWO fresh containers of concealer (ahem.... just in case I need to loan it to a friend's eye baggage.....). I have tennis shoes, and deodorant, and my friendly earbuds.
I'm ready. Totally ready. I'm like, seriously------ not excited.
Ironically- despite all the preparation I have, the biggest obstacle I seem to face with making it to the gym is this: MY GYM CLOTHES MAKE ME FEEL FAT!!!
What? Really? Ya. Really. Vain and lame, but oh-so-true.
IT's hard to hide the muffin top in a pair of stretchy pants and a thin cotton t-shirt.
But it's winter, and I have an excuse to wear layers. And I'm feeling older and tired-er daily.
And I'll be DARNED if I'm going to be fat for the rest of my life. And ok, fine-
YA. SURE. I found cellulite. And the girls aren't as perky as they used to be. And whatever, the concealer IS for my eye baggage (as if it actually works).
For Real This Time.
I'm going to the gym. And I'm gonna for real work out.
And I'm gonna smack 30 around like, like...... like- Well? I don't know what I'm gonna smack 30 around like, but it'll be something really good!.
- 8.4 and Chicken Salad
4 days ago