I am a failure at fitness. I always have been.
Yes, I never met a workout plan I couldn’t sabotage.
You see, in general, I don’t like pain — and there’s just so much else to do: kids, career, housework, Facebooking.
And I don’t like looking foolish. Something I’ve always managed to do:
- There’s Marshmallow Marasch in a race, hobbling in second to last, like always, just ahead of the girl who has asthma.
- There’s Michelle playing softball. The ball arcs in the air, straight toward her. She holds her glove up in front of her face for protection and shuts her eyes.
- There’s Jelly Belly, fuming at the name so publicly given to her by one of three younger brothers. (Thanks, Matt.) She’s wrestling gravity with Jane — Fonda, that is — doing crunches and pelvic thrusts, all to the tune of chortles from those aforementioned brothers.
- There’s Michelle again, this time dodging red, rubber, welt-leaving balls. Who knew she could run so fast? See that look of terror in her eyes? Then she discovers a new problem. If you run fast enough and you can’t throw hard enough to get anyone out, you might just be the last one left on your team — the target of … ouch … 10 balls instead of one.
Now, at age 44, with a sit-down job, I’m discovering vacuuming and picking up toys aren’t enough. My muscles has atrophied. Instead of abs of steel, I have abs of Jello. I can actually make my tummy talk, much to my husband’s chagrin. And now, I have asthma, stealing my breath away and making me just want to take a nap.
But I, I will not go fat and frumpy into that dark night.
Hear me now. I refuse to be a failure at fitness at fifty.
So, can I do it? Can I become an athlete after all these years?
I am about to try. Stay tuned.