Don't try to make me do it. You won't win. Neither my body nor my mind is in the mood to exercise today. I just don't wanna.
I've been regular, six or seven days each and every week, with professionals and on my own, taking care of the body that survived bullets and surgeries and bed rest. I am proud of that body, my body, the one that's sitting like a lump in this chair, watching its fingers type to you. It's got remarkable bones that didn't need to be replaced and a resiliency that surprises me every time i get back up on the reformer and do the leg-and-foot-work once again.
It's always willing to do what I tell it to do... or at least to try. "Can you do this?" the instructor might ask. My answer is always the same. "Let's try it and see what happens." I've been operating under the premise that the worst that can happen has already landed on my doorstep. The surgeon promised that no one, no activity, no pulling or stretching or positioning could remove my repaired hip from its moorings. I could do whatever I could manage.
And so, for thirty-one months that's exactly what I have been doing. Whatever I could manage moved from galumphing with the walker, to leaning on the cane, to balancing between two hiking poles. I aimed for distance and endurance and fluidity in my gait; I'm not ready to say that I've accomplished any or all of it just yet.
I've snapped a pedometer to my belt, left a hiking stick in my car, leaned on shopping carts and hand rails as I tried to motivate myself to do more, to get better faster. The pedometer just depressed me; the numbers were no where near what they were before I intersected with bullets. The hiking pole reassured me that I could get from the furthest parking space to the door of Costco without having to pause and regroup. The shopping carts and the hand rails and the elevators instead of the stairs were normal enough to avoid drawing unwanted attention to my disability.
Dis-ability..... the word is resonating today. Were I truly able-bodied, I'd have laughed at my lassitude, taken myself out for a high calorie breakfast, and promised that I'd work it all off tomorrow. But, my abilities have been dissed. I am not running on all cylinders. My git-up-and-go has got-up-and-went.
I creak and I crack and I ache. The only way that will change is if I am diligent with my exercising. I cannot take a day off; my muscles and tendons and ligaments go right back to those three plus months on the couch, relaxing into the non-painful but not helpful postures they adopted back then. If I move, if I stretch, if I push myself to do what my treatment team suggests, the pay off is immediate and self-reinforcing.
I squeeze and I lengthen and I adjust and I level and I press and I breathe. The physical therapy movements and the Pilates sequences depend on precision and mindfulness. It's not about strength, it's about progress. The little changes build upon one another and suddenly I can keep my feet in the correct position as I move through the flow. It's about consistency and tenacity and a willingness to do the work.
That willingness is absent today. It has vanished. My usual early morning good cheer remains, but the impetus to put on gym clothes and head to LA Fitness is lacking. No one is waiting for me there. The is no instructor or classroom full of friends. There is just the machinery, the mats, and me.
I can't make myself go. I've tried. I found piles to straighten and emails to answer and problems to solve. I answered the phone and made an appointment for 11am. I got into the pool and did five minutes of laps, but even that wasn't holding my interest. I got out, dripped all over the newly washed floors, and plopped on the stool in my closet, peeved.
Peeved at myself. Peeved at whatever had stolen my energy. Peeved at the whole situation. I don't want to have to work out, I want to want to work out. I want to exercise instead of rehabilitate. I want to watch my muscles grow instead of return. I want to impress myself with the weights I am moving and the power of my perfect self.
I want to be tall and blonde, too. Are you gearing up to sing Mick's ode to my whining? I am annoying myself as I type these words. The hope that writing it down would lead to motivation was a futile one, at best. I'm still sitting, nearly finished with this post, and still without energy to do what I know needs to be done.
I don't wanna.
That's going to have to be good enough for today. It's all I've got.