ode to exercise

Since the middle of November I’ve been having some problems with my knees. First it was the left, then the right one, then I pulled/strained/just plain fucked up something in my right calf so walking was painful. Then once that was under control my left knee started up again…I swear, I turned thirty-six and my body somehow got the memo to start falling apart.

It’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been feeling at or around one hundred percent healthy, so it’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been able to return to my normal gym routine. And it makes me so happy to be able to exercise again I could cry.

Seriously. I love the muscle quivers that follow a heavy weightlifting workout, the flushed cheeks and dripping sweat that accompany me on my morning run. Heavy breathing, pounding pulse, the taste of salt on my lips…it’s a drug, and I’m addicted.

But I was not always an exerciser, oh no. Most of my twenties were spent in studious avoidance of any sort of physical exertion, and still, I do enjoy a good sloth (defined as being as inert as possible for as long as possible, with the goal of accomplishing absolutely nothing at all) from time to time. But everything just seems to run so much more smoothly if I manage to make it to the gym at least three (five is ideal) times a week. I sleep better, eat better, I’m more alert during the day, my skin is clearer…life is just easier if I can get an hour on the elliptical or a session with the kettlebell in the morning.

Christine thinks this makes me a mutant, and looks at me with fear and trepidation when I announce that I ran five miles that morning. As though this affliction is communicable, and might take hold in her (she’s a little paranoid that way). And I freely admit that not everyone feels this way. Even people who get up and do it every day might not love it.

But I do. I love it. And as long as my body holds out, I shall never leave it.