About a year ago I started a really good thing in going to the YMCA to work out. I would have preferred a friend to accompany me for encouragement and company, but for some reason I could not persuade any of my friends to join me in this adventure. So, I enjoyed doing this by my self three days a week for several months. With the aerobics first, followed by using the exercise equipment, I felt much better, and actually had a good time doing it.

However, after about six months, I started slacking off, and I think that I was actually seeking an excuse to not go. Whether it was boredom or the lack of an exercise buddy, I didn’t really have the enthusiasm that had been mine in the beginning of this quest. An excuse finally presented itself. My annual mammogram came back messy; messy meaning just that. There was garbage in the right breast that wasn’t an immediate threat to me, but it just wasn’t supposed to be there. According to the doctor, it had to come out. I had the out-patient surgery, or day surgery, and returned home to recover.

This was the beginning of my procrastination. I didn’t go back to the gym for a year. What gold-bricking! I had used the surgery as an excuse not to go work out. I squeezed that excuse for an entire year until my annual mammogram rolled around again. Once more, there was more trash, but in both sides this time. Again, this was not a threat to me, but needed to be cleaned out. There was more surgery, and more guilt piling up on me for not going back to the gym. My recovery went fine, and I was released by my doctor to do whatever I wanted to do.

There were no more excuses. In the back of my mind, a voice kept saying, “You have no muscle tone, and the scales ARE correct!” My thighs were looking more like curds and whey. The painful awareness that I could no longer squeeze into my favorite jeans just haunted me. I could not make myself toss them into the bag by the front door designated for the next charity that called for a clothing donation. Actually, there were many items of clothing in my closet that I could not bring myself to donate. After all, I might be able to wear them again. Right?

Though the YMCA that I gone to previously was conveniently close by, small and had everything that I needed; there was still something lacking. The small facility had seemed so perfect with its Silver Sneaker group showing up every day, but it had not been enough to keep me coming back. Could the Silver Sneakers program have been way too much structure for me? Who could keep up with 86 year old, 4’9” Celeste, who could bench press her own weight? After all, I am genetically pre-disposed to fighting structure and discipline, no matter who imposes it. It goes waaaayyyyy back in the family genes on both sides.

I’d driven by the BIG ONE (YMCA), which was further by about 1.5 miles. Wanting to see what that one had to offer I drove there to see what made it so much more appealing. I scanned my Y-card, which had to be re-activated, and then asked to speak to someone about a program that would fit my rebelliousness. The woman escorted me back in to what seemed to be catacomb of halls to a small office. I was told to wait until the Coordinator of Rebelling Procrastinators called me. The young woman was wonderful! Seems she had seen me coming. She was so good that she dissolved any future excuses and made me think that this experience would be like going to a day spa every day. I fell into her pitch and she designed a 4 day a week program that would fit me perfectly. I was to report to the equipment room the next day for orientation.

There was a silver haired older man sitting at the desk in the equipment room. I say older because I knew he was older than me. I was introduced to Aldo, who would give me an orientation to the equipment I would be using. This included gauging my personal physique and statistics to the various machines. That’s right. You get your very own pin number for each machine. Once you’ve entered your pin number, the computer gauges the resistance, and then tells that person exactly how many, how fast or how slow. It will tell you to slow down, or speed up as needed. Once you’ve reached your limit you’re done on that machine. On to the next one!

Aldo was very fit and very knowledgeable. He took me through three different rooms full of equipment, and introduced me to each one I’d be using. As we programmed each machine, he told me a little about himself. He’d come from out of state, and was going through a divorce which would be final in two weeks. He’d be glad to help me out any time I needed him. Just ask … any time! What a nice guy!

I went for my first class the next morning. This would be the H2O stretch, which was more like water yoga. The indoor pool was the perfect temperature so I got right in. There were about twelve of us, including two older men (older than me). Again, I think I was the youngest person there. I found out quickly just how out of shape I am. My balance was severely off, and the instructor, Rosie, told me that this would get much better with each session.

A very tall, very thin woman walked in. She was very attractive, and dressed in what I can only think to call water clothing (not a bathing suit), that included gloves with webbed fingers and water shoes. She appeared to be made up of string, steel and rubber-bands. I’m sure she knew I wondered why on earth she was there. She introduced herself right away, and told me that she was not an instructor, but that she would help me since I was new. Lorie also told me that she was a marathon runner, and she came in there daily to stretch before her runs. I asked her how long she had been a marathon runner, and she told me she’d been running for about 40 years. YIKES! She was much closer to my age than I would have ever guessed. She looked only fortyish. Mind you, I am aware that she is not simply lucky. She’s worked for it.

The H2O stretch went well. It actually made me feel great! The bursitis in my hip had quit nagging me, but I didn’t take notice of that until I started to get in my truck to leave. It didn’t hurt to hitch myself up there into the seat. This was great encouragement for me to report back on Monday for the weight-bearing equipment, the tread mill and water aerobics. I should be through before 10:30.

It would be totally unrealistic goal to use a picture of myself taken 30+ years ago. That one was taken back in the cute and adorable days. If I thought I was fat then, I was just out of my mind. I Can't believe I was that hot! Just being aware that it exists is enough.

I decided that it wasn’t doing me any good at all to weigh in every morning on the scale in the kitchen. So, I got a post it and wrote 140 on it and pasted it onto the display on the scale. There! That’s something I can aim at, and it’s not unrealistic. I’m not even tempted to get on that scale until I actually feel a difference, and who knows when that might be. Until then, that’s my weight. I just go by the jeans that hang on the dresser drawer knob in plain sight. Now if I just had a buddy to trade encouragements with.