Exercise Sucks But I’m Doing It Anyway
Hello, my friends. It’s good to be back. There is so much to talk about, which is actually quite overwhelming. Where do you start when you feel like you have everything to say? Well, you start…somewhere completely different, I guess because that’s what I’m doing today. I’ve always treated this blog as a personal journal, a brain dump of ideas or feelings. I tend to have erratic thought patterns, jumping from topic to topic, giving myself mental whiplash. Oftentimes, I’ll start talking to Charles halfway through a sentence I started in my head, and he has no clue what on earth I’m going on about. That’s kind of like today’s post.
I’m writing this right now for accountability because that’s how I work. As painful as it can be to have someone check in on you and remind you to do the thing you don’t want to do, it’s what I need. Warning: it may come with a lot of huffs and puffs and eye-rolls. I have the same maturity level as my 15-month toddler when I don’t feel inspired to do a thing.
Here it is: Since giving birth, I’ve put on something close to 30 pounds—I stopped weighing myself months ago when the battery in the scale died and I’m too scared to look now…and too lazy to change the battery. That’s in addition to the 10 or so pounds I had left on my frame right after having Evelyn…not to mention being chronically “overweight” by about 30-40 pounds for my height (according to BMI charts, which well…are a bit outdated). But still, you do the math. Breastfeeding made me ravenous, and the commonly held truth that it makes you lose weight is just not true for all of us. I’ve actually done a lot of reading that suggests otherwise. For some of us, our bodies preserve fat as a failsafe to make sure we can continue to feed our infants. BUT, this is not the only thing to blame for me.
My sweet tooth has been monstrous, and as I keep feeding the monster, it requires more and more of me. Every few hours, and at the very least after every meal, the chubby hand of the furry beast reaches out, asking for a treat.
That same monster is also very tired, with little energy left to complete even the normal day’s duties. “But Arlyn, physical activity will help with that! It’ll give you energy!” Oh, I know, but let me finish my pity party first before I move forward sensibly, okay?
Look, I detest diet culture. I’ve done Weight Watchers three times, have tried Beach Body, have done low-carb, no-sugar, Whole30, vegan…I’ve even made up my own diets that included not eating anything with more than five ingredients listed or any ingredients I couldn’t pronounce. I’ve done the “eat half your meal now, then the other half in an hour or whenever you get hungry again” diet. Diets don’t work. Well, they do, if your goal is short-term weight loss, but I always slip back into my chicken-tender-loving ways.
I’m a larger person by nature that also happens to be a petite adult (in stature). I was born weighing 10 pounds and measuring 23 inches. I’m not asking to be the thin person my body wasn’t born to be. But right now, I’m feeling the weight on my joints. My knees crackle as I go up the stairs. My feet feel like someone came at night and swapped out all the bones for a bird skeleton. I’m sluggish, have mental fog, and a low desire to get things done. I am not myself, and I’m writing this today to declare that I’m making a change.
My health and wellness need to start taking priority over my desire to watch Parks & Rec until I pass out on the couch every night at 8:30, wake up to do a little work, then pass out again in bed watching Indian Matchmaking at 11:30. I want to be able to run around the playground with my girl, without eyeballing the bench nearby, wondering when its time to sit down. I want to go up and down a flight of stairs without my life decisions flashing before my eyes. I want to feel good. Period. And I don’t right now.
Before continuing, I want to just flat out say: this isn’t about pant size or the number on the scale, but the truth is, none of my pants actually fit me, and if the number on the scale were, oh, about 50-60 pounds less, I guarantee my frame wouldn’t feel quite as burdened.
So…what’s my plan? No clue. But like every single article I’ve ever read from entrepreneurs or people who get stuff done, I’m starting where I am. I’m starting today. I’m starting right now. With one step.
I can’t recall the podcast (sorry), but I remember listening to this thing once about how if you want to be active but you haven’t ever been or haven’t been in a while, just start with one tiny act at a time and build upon it. It kind of looks like this:
Day 1: Take out your sneakers and exercise clothes. You don’t have to put them on, but you have to take them out.
Day 2: Put on your clothes and your sneakers. You don’t have to go anywhere, but you have to put them on.
Day 3: Walk out the door in your sneakers. You don’t have to keep going, but you have to take the first step.
Day 4: Exercise for 1 minute.
Day 5: Exercise for 2 minutes.
And so on and so forth. It sounds painfully slow, and kind of ridiculous to those who have the motivation and discipline to just tie up their sneakers and go for that 6-mile run on day 1, but we’re not all wired that way. The idea is that one day at a time, you’re building on what you did the day before, and will eventually build the discipline to get to where you’re hoping to go.
The key word here is discipline (not motivation). Everyone I know who lives an active lifestyle tells me they’re often not motivated to exercise, but it’s just become a part of their day/week and they get it done for the payoff of feeling good. I’m here waiting for motivation when all along I need to train myself to push through the allure of a cushy sofa cushion or a home decor project.
There’s also the added layer of mom guilt. None of what I’m about to say is actually true, but that same sugar, chicken-tender-loving monster also loves to whisper nonsense into my ear about burdening others. A few times recently, I’ve contemplated going out and exercising, but then Monster says “Arlyn, that means you’re leaving Charles to shoulder the weight of taking care of Evelyn while you…’work on yourself.’” Man, I hate Monster. Charles and I are fairly equal parents in this household. Charles has never and will never make me feel a way about caring for myself or doing something for myself that takes me away from mothering. He’s immensely supportive. As long as he has the time and doesn’t have to work, he’s there for it. So…this excuse is null and void, but it sure is tempting. YOU HEAR THAT, MONSTER?
So today, I’m starting with one decision at a time. One meal at a time. One snack at a time. One craving at a time. One step at a time. For myself. For my daughter. For my future. After posting a whole thing about taking on the task of being a runner (or, jogger, more likely), I actually strapped on my sneakers, put my girl in her jogger stroller, and went for it. I wasn’t watching the clock. I have no idea how long we were out. Maybe 45 minutes? Maybe 30? I don’t know. But I power walked. And I jogged. And I got my heart rate up. And I felt GREAT. And then I thought “oh goodness…I have to do this always and forever, right? I’m so tired.” But then I felt GREAT again.
From today on, I’m going to try a little bit harder than I have in the past. It won’t be perfect. It never is. But I have to try. Because what else do we have if we don’t?
Until next time, FOAS.