Just Call Me Grannie

If you see a little old lady hobbling down the street in a picturesque suburban development in eastern Pennsylvania, pay her no nevermind. It is probably just me.

I got this bright idea to start lifting weights again. WHY? It’s all the usual suspects: I’m turning 40 next year, bone density issues run in my family, the middle age spread is getting . . . well . . . it’s spreading. Yadda, yadda.

Actually, I was inspired by my mother, who has been working out and looks AH-mazing. As I told my husband, I can’t have my mother looking better than me! (Sorry, Mom!)

So I finally got off my {rapidly spreading} hiney last Friday and went to the gym. I spent about 40 minutes doing lunGes and squats and leg lifts and push ups, with the heaviest weights that I could manage without compromising form (not that that’s saying much). I was literally shaking as I walked to my car.

I look at it this way: if I’m going to take the time to put on workout clothes, drive across town and put myself on display in front of all the hard bodies at the gym, I am going to make it worth my time. My philosophy of exercise is go big or go home.

I want to see results . . . preferably by next week, but I’ll give it till Christmas.

What I didn’t take into account is, it’s nice to be able to walk the day week after.

All day Saturday I could hardly move. I don’t think there’s a muscle in my body that I didn’t abuse.

I woke up on Sunday morning and didn’t feel much better so I decided to go for a run. (Makes sense, right? Ha.) I actually thought it might loosen up my sore muscles. Hmmm’kay.

I was planning to take a leisurely jog/walk, but I ended up running most of the way and even adding on an extra mile for good measure. Because while I’m out there, I might as well make it worth my while, right?

Are you sensing a pattern here?

Evidently that wasn’t the most brilliant of ideas. Running didn’t hurt at the time, but I’ve been hobbling around ever since. I’m literally limping. It’s utterly pathetic. And I’m not getting much sympathy from my husband. As he informed me, there’s a good reason he doesn’t put himself through this torture. He’d rather get his exercise hiking or playing tennis.

My kids, on the other hand, think it’s hilarious. Every time I get up and walk around the house, I find myself moaning ow, ow, ow, under my breath with each movement. Then I laugh at myself and my pitiful state, and that hurts too.

I am finally getting to the point that I don’t wince with every move I make, and today is the day I am scheduled to go back to the gym and start this dreadful cycle all over again. (Note: I didn’t run yesterday. I’m saving up all my strength for weight lifting today.)

I don’t remember how long it takes to get over the initial pain and agony of working out, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be hobbling for a few weeks, until my body grows accustom to this abuse.

Meanwhile, don’t get too close; you might knock me over. It’s all I can do to remain upright these days.