A Couch Potato Gets Fit
After 38 sluggish years, I finally made exercise a habit.
An Electrifying Article continued...
Reading the article, a light bulb went on in my head. I realized that I had been stuck in stage two -- contemplation -- for years. The reason? I had inadvertently been omitting the crucial next step -- preparation -- that lay between deciding to exercise and actually doing it. All those times I'd demanded "What's wrong with you?" I should have been asking, "Exactly when in your day are you going to fit this in?"
Sounds simple, but it got me over the hump. To make my intentions a reality, I needed a specific plan. So I analyzed my schedule and chose late afternoon as the time to get moving. I dug through drawers, looking for long-unused sweatpants and exercise bras, so that when the time came, no logistical glitches would keep me deskbound.
Into the Woods
Finally, more than eight months after I moved next door to a redwood forest -- I tied the laces on my vintage sneakers and jogged into it. As I'd suspected, I often had to walk to soothe a cramp below my ribcage. Even as I gasped for air, though, I realized that my pounding heart was chasing away the jittery thoughts that usually inhabited my brain. I returned home surprisingly refreshed, and penciled "exercise" into my organizer for two days later at 4 p.m. When the time came, I remembered that vibrant calm and tried again.
Now my legs and my mind start to jiggle in the late afternoon if I haven't yet run. I often leave my house feeling panicky about deadlines or overwhelmed by concepts I don't quite grasp. My jog transports me to a different self: Percussive breaths drum a sense of steadiness into me and I find myself imagining springs on my soles that catapult me forward. By the end of my outing, I know that I can complete my tasks without trouble and understand anything necessary.
It's not always easy. Some days, headwinds make my eyes tear up and foil my efforts to move forward, or I feel exhausted before I start. The grime on the bathroom sink demands attention; the novel I'm reading beckons. I run anyway. By the time I lope out of the woods, after 30 or 40 minutes, I'm usually wishing that the trail extended further. Often I sprint to the finish.