I Could Never Do That

“I could never do that.”

I was talking to a friend, C., and telling her about my climb to the top of the AON building. (I know, I'm patting myself on the back again.  But, hey, someone needs to do it.) “It’s eighty floors to the top.” I boasted. “It was tough, but it was worth it.”

That’s when C. cast her eyes towards the floor and said, “I could never do that.” 

I talk a lot about exercising and the things I have accomplished recently.  Probably so much that people are getting sick of hearing about it.  (There she goes, bragging again.  Roll eyes.)  Yet here I am, talking about it again and I’m sure it won’t be the last time. But it wasn't always this way.

Flash back time. 

It was less than two years ago.  I was standing in front of the mirror and surveying my reflection.  My jeans were too tight.  I was going to need a new pair, in a bigger size.  My shirt showed too many  bulges.  My arms were flabby.  My knees hurt and so did my back.

“It sucks getting old.” I muttered to myself. 

Old. That was my latest excuse.  Before that, it was taking care of the babies.  But the babies were growing up so I couldn’t keep blaming them.  Before that, it was time.  As in, “I don’t have time to exercise or eat healthy because I have to [insert something that sounds important like clean the house or wash the car].” But on that particular day, I was going with old.   That was my latest excuse.

My latest excuse was a good one.  It meant that whatever happened next wasn’t my fault.  It meant that I could keep doing exactly what I was doing without having to change. It protected me from failing by preventing me from trying. It meant I could stay in my comfort zone.  Too bad the tight jeans were making me feel uncomfortable.

A few days later, I visited my doctor for a check up.  “I’ve been trying to lose weight.” I whined.  “But nothing seems to work.” 

It was true.  I had tried all the fad diets. The one where you don’t eat pasta? Tried it.  The one where you only eat pasta? Tried that too.  The one where you only eat pasta on Thursdays in months without an R in them.  Yea, I'm pretty sure I tried that as well.

Some of the fad diets were even successful, for a few weeks.  But every time I went back to my old ways and my old weight.  Now, I could hear the scale moan every time I stepped on it.  And I could barely walk a flight of stairs without being winded.  And I felt like crap.  I could go on....

My hope was that my doctor had a magic solution - something that didn’t involve exercise or missing dessert.  Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. 

What he said was, “Maybe this is the weight you are meant to be at.”  What I heard was, “You’re fat, you’ve always been fat, you’ll always be fat.”  I left his office in tears.

As it turns out, nothing motivates me more powerfully than some jerk telling me I can’t do something.  The more I thought about what my doctor said, the more determined I was to prove him wrong. 

The next day I started walking.  A week later, I started running - to the end of my block.  (Hey, it was a start.)  By the end of September, I was able to run for a mile.  By the end of November, I could run for two.  The following April, I completed a 5K race.  In September I ran 15K.   It was slow progress; but it was progress.

I wish I could tell you it was easy.  I wish I could tell you that hundreds of pounds melted away.  I wish I could tell you that I found the magic solution.  I wish I could tell you that I am done.  But if I told you that, I would be lying.

The truth I found was different. It has involved hard work, harder than I imagined.  It has involved early morning exercise, too early for a non-morning person.  It has involved feeling uncomfortable, like when I had to walk into a gym full of fit people and see my robust reflection in the mirror.  It has involved pushing myself harder than I thought possible even when all I wanted to do was go back to bed.

It was difficult to be sure.  But the most difficult part wasn’t the exercise.  The most difficult part wasn’t the hard work.  The most difficult part wasn’t even the dreaded “getting up early in the morning.”  The most difficult part was abandoning my excuses.

Old? I had to give it up.  I’m not so old, I had to tell myself.  There are people older than me who do more.  Out of shape?  I had to give it up.  Well, I am out of shape.  But there are people in worse shape than me.  The kids?  I had to give it up.  They’ll be better off if their mom is healthy.  Out of time? I had to give it up.  Make the time, dammit!    

The most difficult part was abandoning my excuses.  Because abandoning my excuses meant I had to stop blaming my age.  It meant I had to stop blaming my kids.  It meant I had to stop blaming lack of time.  It meant I had to be accountable for my own actions.  It meant that whether I chose to do or I chose to do not, the blame was all mine.  

Flash forward to my conversation with C.  If I could have read her mind, I’m sure I would have found a million excuses bouncing in her brain.  And I would have recognized every one of them, because every one of them belonged to me.  So when C. looked at the floor and said, “I could never do that”, I looked back at C. and said, “Yes you can.”