For the past 14 years, I have been in an ever-constant battle with my weight. I blame a lot of it on stress and anxiety. Those 14 years were full of home renovation, a high-pressure job, a husband who works solely on commission in the bursted bubble of a housing market and two premature babies…one of whom threw in congenital heart disease just for good measure.
So, yes, I’ve been stressed. But, I won’t deny that a good portion of my jiggling thighs is because I love chocolate. And beer. The three of them together equals the perfect storm of cellulite.
The thing I have come to realize, as my 40th birthday nears, is that burdens don’t go away; they just change. Life is never going to be easy. It’s time to acknowledge that and work with it, instead of against it. I don’t want to fight myself anymore. I want to fight the fat.
Tonight, I completed my first of 36 boot camp sessions. I was excited, but to tell the truth, I was scared of not being able to walk afterward.
My friend Melisa is a group fitness instructor and I talked to her just before I went to class. She told me that because I’m social that I would love the atmosphere, that I would have fun and that I should “embrace the pain”.
What she failed to tell me, is that I should also embrace the vomit.
Apparently, the instructor saw it coming when my beet-red face turned crisp-cotton-white, which is probably when I felt the room spinning. She stopped the class. FOR ME. Which is really not embarrassing at all. You know, if you’re made of stone.
After she got me a Gatorade, things improved. Not a lot, but enough for the walls to stand still. I fought through. I did not quit.
Then I came home and started typing and searched the internet for a photo of the boot camp to insert in this post. I typed the name of the workout facility into Google, hit images, and saw this picture…
Thank goodness for that Gatorade.