I think I've mentioned this before, but since it has been weighing on my mind lately, I think I'll say it again: I am not an athletic sort of individual.
My body is designed for long days spent in pajamas, curled on a bed with a laptop perched across my ample thighs. My belly, where I store my extra fat and love, is a perfect pillow for the heads of my children or any wayward cat that needs a warm place for a quick nap. I don't move quickly. In fact, since my children are now old enough to fetch, it's possible, though ethically questionable, for me to not move at all.
Getting up and throwing myself around vigorously everyday ruins it for everyone. My pajamas become lonely, and wonder what's so great about leaving the house anyway? My kids want to know why I can't stay still long enough for them to crawl all over me and what's up with the sweat? Why the heck do you shower so much lately? A question usually reserved for teenage boys.
The last couple of months I have been picking up the pace fitness-wise. I now have a gym membership and am familiar enough face to the front desk people that they ask about my kids. My 'clothes to sweat in', between derby and gym time, has taken over my wardrobe. I am familiar with my resting heart rate and my desired heart rate for a decent cardiovascular workout. I cross train. I circuit train. I combine cardio and resistance training. Just knowing all these phrases and how to apply them should get me a free two inch butt lift, don't you think?
I get myself into a healthy, sweaty lather - the unfun way - at least six days a week now.
It would be nice to say that this has given me a trimmer body and more energy, but in general I am still the same basic potatoe shape as always, moving at a slightly brisker pace than slug amputee. If becoming vegan didn't do it, passing time watching boxing while running on a treadmill isn't going it cut it either. Now in my mid-thirties, it would take nothing less than three boot camp drill sergeants, a team of liposuction surgeons, and a truck full of Spanx to alter this body. Looking at the women in my family, I think it would be fairly safe to say that I would be the same shape no matter if I spent my days training for a triathlon or eating chocolate covered bon-bons and drinking Pilsner. My ancestors bred for generous pockets of fat, better to survive the cold and seasonal famines. I move slowly, better to conserve precious calories, and the mere idea of skipping the bread course is enough of a shock to my system to make it store even more calories in anticipation of the Great Sweet Roll Shortage.
Look at me, pinnacle of evolution. Now where are my bon-bons and pajamas?
However. As nice at it would be to shut myself inside all day, eating and getting drunk, I do value my health, blah blah etc, and at night I do venture forth to do a little think called roller derby. Perhaps you've heard of it?
That's the kicker. I must get better at derby. This sport is too dangerous for half assedness. And the potential for embarrassment is high. If I was a natural athlete, I could, in fact, live a nice, indulgent lifestyle, and still knock bitches around, making it look as easy as taking a stroll to the mailbox. I know several people who are of that type and I resent the hell right out of them.
But, given my body, personal history, and penchant for dark chocolate, peanut butter, and red wine, I have to work pretty damn hard to gain even the smallest improvement in agility or speed. It takes a lot of effort just to lift this body up and down stairs with a basket of laundry, never mind chugging on the stair climber for forty minutes. It is difficult to continue to motivate myself to eat less, drink less, and exercise everyday when there seems to be little payoff. Am I whining? Definitely.
Still, I continue. My one true skill, as far as I can tell, is this streak of belligerence in me that kicks up wherever I think I may be defeated. I might not win, I probably don't stand a chance, but I haven't given up yet. My motivation is to inch up my skills to a place where I have a plausible shot at laying out one of those naturally athletic bitches. Get my revenge on the track. And if that day never comes to pass, well, I suppose I can always wait in a dark alley with a bottle of merlot and a ten pound block of fudge and seriously mess with her mesomorph ass.
Just thinking out loud.