Waking my Metabolism

There was a guy at the gym today in a dress shirt, khakis, and boat shoes. Another guy was wearing a giant gray sweatshirt with a towel wrapped around his neck like he was Rocky Balboa, or more accurately Mickey Goldmill. Another guy, super thin, was doing lunges around the equipment. And, another guy sat on an exercise bike reaching for the sky the entire time he pedaled. It was fabulous. I felt like I was working out with Elaine Benes' dad.

I noted with curiosity and a hint of dismay that each one of them used the rowing machine. I've always like the rowing machine, but much like an old leather medicine ball, I think it's probably dated--Kevin Spacey uses one on House of Cards and I'm starting to think they use it as a symbol of his age.

I was at the gym for about 90 minutes so I had a chance to watch these men cycle through their routines. I started to feel competitive, like "oh, that guy's been on the treadmill the entire time I've been on the stationary bike. I need to up my game."

And by "upping my game," I meant "beat the 80-year-old."

Sigh. My metabolism is asleep. I've known this for a long time. And, I'm having a devil of a time waking it up. I've been using my metabolism (not the eggamuffins and mac-and-cheese and bottles of bourbon and BBQ potato chips and cheeseburgers and french fries) as my excuse for gaining so much weight. I'm in my 40s; what do you expect? Right?

It was as though I had already called on Metabolism at the funeral parlor, hugged his wife, lamented the passing of something so youthful (but let's face it, he had a good run), met everyone in the church basement for some coffee, deli meats, and finger sandwiches (tuna, chicken, or ham), and laughed at some of Metabolism's greater moments: Remember when he would let me eat an entire pizza? Remember that time I devoured a cheesesteak with a coffee milkshake right before bed and I didn't gain an ounce? Remember how I used to hike for a little while and my muscles stayed toned for months? Good times. Good times.

Watching these duffers today, I knew they would never be Jack Palance, but they were trying. And, I imagined the ghost of my poor weary Metabolism watching the old guys and resenting the hell out of me for giving up on him.

I'd be lying if I said I don't love feeling strength in my legs. But, I tend to focus on my ailments (I suspect you've figured that out already). I twisted my ankle really badly. I pulled my IT band. I dislocated my shoulder.

I don't know when that started. I learned to play the flute with a torn tendon in my thumb. It never occurred to me to complain or even take Tylenol. I just did it. These days, I can't muster up the energy to get on the elliptical in the next room because my knees feel "a little funny." Granted, I need to pay attention to what my body is telling me--walking things off is what got me into some of these predicaments in the first place--but paying attention to the pain rather than the gain is also what got me into those size 14 trousers. And, the more I sit on my butt, the more pain I'm going to be in. My frame, albeit of Irish peasant stock, can't carry this weight around anymore.

So, while I watched those guys shuffle through the gym, I made a resolution (another damn resolution, think I'll actually stick to this one?): I'm not going to focus on the pain.

When Groom and I were dating, we were a terrible couple. (Bear with me, this goes somewhere.) We were both so hellbent on proving our independence from one another, we rarely saw each other. For years, we would see each other on an average of about once or maybe twice a month. I hated it.

I would spend so much of my time thinking about all the bad things we had done to each other and said to each other over the years. All the broken promises and changed plans. It just ate at me, and I was unable to be sweet with him; I was too caught up in the bad times.

One day--and I swear it was like that...just...[snap] one day--I decided I would focus on the good parts of our relationship. When we had an argument, I wouldn't immediately assume we were breaking up. When he was running late, I wouldn't immediately assume he was blowing me off. When he forgot our plans and did something else, I wouldn't immediately brand him as selfish.

The most amazing thing happened. I stopped worrying. Sure, we get into arguments now and then (you did sign off on those kitchen windows, Groom), but instead I focus on the flowers he slipped into my office or the fact that he changed my flat tire without my asking him or that he allows me to sit at my computer for hours on end writing nonsense and watching Office reruns.

We'll see whether this works for exercise. Metabolism, wake up. I love my strong legs. Now, pick up that medicine ball and keep moving, Jack.