Progress at the gym

Hit the gym yesterday for the first time since returning from the Midwest, and my oh my did it feel good. At some point over the last year or two, working out has finally started to feel like a thing I do for myself. Not for my doctor, not for sexist notions of female beauty, not for feminist notions of female strength. For me, because I’m the only one who can do this for myself, and if not now, when? (With apologies to Hillel, who would have been a great personal trainer. Shammai, not so much.)

Most of us pick up dysfunctional messages toward food, exercise, and/or our bodies when we are growing up. One that held me back for a long time was the unconscious belief that if I wasn’t good at exercise, I didn’t have the right to do it. That was certainly what the peers who teased and bullied me for my embarrassingly incompetent attempts at team sports or solo dancing appeared to be suggesting, and going along with their assessment seemed to be the wisest and easiest course of action.

As an adult, of course, I didn’t fear getting a wedgie from the 75-year-old grandmother at my neighborhood co-ed, gay-friendly YMCA featuring water aerobics for the seniors and day care for the stay-at-home-moms. But I still hung on to the notion that taking up space in a gym or scheduling time to work out was something I had to earn. That exercise was a privilege, not a right. So I was prone to hugely overdoing it in an attempt to become as fit as the kind of person who deserved to belong to a gym. Which of course led to burnout and disillusionment when I didn’t transform into Linda Hamilton (the early-1990s touchstone for female kickassery) in 10 days.

I give a lot of credit to my gym, Healthworks, for slowly turning this attitude around. There was never any major “aha” moment, just a gradual realization that exercise doesn’t have to be about self-judging and angst and feelings of painful duty. That it can be, and should be, a place to get away from mental minefields and focus entirely on the moment, the physical, the subjective. I wish it hadn’t taken me quite so long to get there, but I’m glad I did.

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