my word
Breaking Up
... with the gym
by beth cooney
Photo: MorePixels/GettyImages.
I
never meant to quit the gym. Honest. And I suppose in order to completely believe that, you’ll just have to take my word that when it comes to fitness, I’ve never been a quitter. I’m the kind of person who would roll my eyes and insist there’s “no excuse” to anyone who dared to protest they were too busy, too stressed, too tired or too broke to work out. My mantra has always been where there’s a will — and a pair of size 27 skinny jeans that needs zipping — there’s a fitness way. So my unceremonious departure from the gym, like most cases of acute appendicitis, was completely unplanned. On a sunny June morning, more than two years ago, I started my day with a Zumba class and ended it being wheeled on a gurney into an operating room pumped up with painkillers. Having your appendix out, as contemporary surgeries go, isn’t a big deal. Sure, your scar-free bikini days are officially over, but most people are walking around their hospital rooms in 24 hours. In my case though, complications arose. My digestive system struggled to recover from the insult of abdominal surgery and for weeks afterwards, I was pathetically sick and weak. I just wasn’t in the mindset for Pilates, Bodypump, Spinning or Zumba. Besides, the sun was shining and my kids were on school vacation. So I called my gym and put my membership of 17 years (I told you I was devoted!) on hold. I told the front desk staff I expected to be back in September. And I meant it. Meanwhile, to gently rebuild my stamina, I started to walk. And a funny thing happened as I paced the hilly streets around my neighborhood. Even though I would have predicted I’d be lying on the bed by the end of the summer in a tugof-war with the zipper on my favorite jeans, I actually dropped a few pounds. My legs toned up. People told me I looked good. Even better, I saved some cash — 90 bucks a month on gym dues and more on gas. I began to love the new gymfree rhythm of my days. I booked play dates on street corners and picked up milk at the gas station convenience mart on my route. I no longer needed to rush off to a class that
began at 9 a.m. sharp, often forgetting to pack clean underwear in my gym bag. Nor did I have to listen to the hotto-trot singleton jabbering about her bad date on the next Spin bike. And while I missed my gym buddies, some of whom I’d known and loved for years, I formed an equally social walking posse. My pedestrian companions included the cutest dogs on the block — Edie (a pug) and the mutt Vader (short for Darth) — and a bunch of fitness-minded members of my mom squad. The most regular among them was a recently unemployed friend who, like me, was freelancing from home as she figured out her next step. September came — and went — and I had no urge to go back to the gym. I figured I’d return in late fall, when it got cold, but the winter of 2011-12 was fairly mild. I decided to keep saving on gym dues and invest in new sneakers. And I kept walking, because, well, my jeans still fit. Then something unexpected happened on my new fitness path. My most reliable walking buddy got a great job and although she tried to negotiate a flexible schedule (so she could walk) it hasn’t quite worked out that way for her, me, or Vader. More and more, I had to step out solo. I began to realize what moves me to elevate my heart rate are social interactions. Walking alone (even with an iPod blasting vintage Madonna) just isn’t the same. We all have fitness personalities and mine seems to revolve around aerobically bonding. Our recent winter, with its 38 inches of snow piled along the streets of my neighborhood, didn’t help. My route felt more treacherous. I walked less often. I started to fight with the zipper on my jeans. And then I saw my arms in one of those cruel three-way fitting room mirrors. Walking just doesn’t keep the guns from going flabby. Recently I was sitting in the bleachers at one of my son’s games when an old gym buddy, still flush from her workout, told us about a new class she had just taken. It’s called Bowka and while it sounds a little kooky (it has something to do with writing cursive letters with your feet) I was intrigued. We made a date to meet at the gym. HL
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