I am a
recovering hypochondriac; I always think I’m sick. When I was leading an extremely sedentary
lifestyle and eating awfully, I seemed to succumb to every virus and bacterial
bug that came my way. I was constantly nauseated,
eating myself sick as often as I could. Dealing
with an ever present malaise made me hypersensitive to how I felt, and I would
suss out the very hint of an ailment that may or may not have been the onset of
an illness. And when it wasn’t, I’d
pretend to be under the weather because declaring myself sick allowed me to comfortably withdraw from a world I feared.
But
throughout this year I have gotten out of my home and into a routine that has
served me well. I have learned that you
can feel quite a bit below perfect (whoever feels perfect?) and still make it
through a day; that a lot of unnerving symptoms subside once I start my day
working out at the Club. And my
resistance, like the muscles of my body, has gotten stronger. I haven’t had to cancel on Laurie due to
illness all year, and I hadn’t exercised feeling sick. Not until Tuesday.
I went
into Laurie’s evening class with a sinus headache through which caffeine couldn’t
cut, a sour stomach that, like a volcano, threatening to spew, and blistered
feet and tired legs from an 8.5 mile half- marathon training walk the previous
afternoon. With a new resolve—that if
sickness hasn’t reduced my faculties, if I don’t need a clear path to the toilet
for either imperative, if I’m not uncontrollably spreading contagion and can
regularly sanitize my hands—I decided to give it all I had. A reduced effort yields more than no effort,
and working through adversity develops the quality of toughness.
Tough is
an apt word to describe my workout.
Every time I bore down to strained at a weight station, my sinuses would
compete with my temples to see who could cause more discomfort. When I rose to my feet, I would get
lightheaded, my eyes saw a flash of bright light. It was then, hobbling around on sore feet, I thought
that I may have bitten off more than I could chew. Finally I reached a roadblock: the first
station that gave pain to my sore right knees—hip extensions on the TRX.
It was at
this point that I remembered that this wasn’t a boot camp where you ring the
bell when you need to quit; it wasn’t even a boot camp exercise program. It was a training group that you participated
to the furthest extent of your own ability.
I think I subconsciously do things with an eccentric flair in order to
get attention. But when I am feeling
good and giving my best Charles Atlas impersonation nobody appreciates me and
watches what I do (save a roving Laurie, who is used to me). So when I am feeling low, it doesn’t matter I
substitute in-place an exercise that I can do for one that hurts my knee. Slowing the pace of my reps and focusing on
deep, relaxed breathes helped ease my headache and, without a tortuous pain, I
was able to get through the session.
A
well-earned night’s rested fully restored me Wednesday morning, and set firm a
new lesson to add to my tool bag: Whenever possible, a little effort is more
furthering than no effort!
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| Laurie's Ab Alley, on the Path to Sixpackville |
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