Thursday, Dec. 19th:
45 minutes running on treadmill, at 4.5 mph, then walking for five minutes, then running at 4.3 mph for the last 10 minutes.
The gym's director watched me run and said my gait is improving. I'm not galloping as much. I'm still landing more heavily on my left foot and dragging the right foot a bit. I pick up my feet a little better. It's good to hear that I'm doing better than last week. That's all I want: Better than the previous week.
But then as I stood at the front desk talking to the director, I went into a scary place. She talked about all the pressure she's under in running the gym, the owner blaming her personally for a drop in membership (which is probably due to their price increase and other gyms opening nearby), and then told me she planned on losing 12 pounds and working on sculpting her legs. She asked me what my goals were. I had to admit I'd gained a little and could stand to lose eight pounds. But even as I said that, feeling uneasy, it was clear to me that her dissatisfaction with her body was also very much about her dissatisfaction with her life.
Then I was thinking about Charlotte Hilton Anderson, talking about her exercise addiction:
Quote:
And while I did – and do – genuinely love working out, my exercise addiction had zilch to do with love. It was 100% fear-based. I was afraid I’d get fat. I was afraid of being weak. I was afraid of being at home alone all day with my four very young children. I was afraid I’d never be good at anything again, ever (black-and-white thinking for the win!). But most of all I was afraid of being left alone with my own thoughts. What I really loved about my chronic overexercising was that all the pain and sweat made it so I didn’t have to think about what was really bothering me.
I wasn’t working out so much because I loved it. I was working out so much because I was too afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.
I do NOT want to add another hour to my routine each day, just when it is dropping closer to the normal 30 minutes per day with some 90 minute days interspersed. I really don't.
But the invitation to join the gym director in working toward further bodily perfection is so seductive. I'm ambivalent so I'm laying it out here.