I made steak au poivre last week, and I’ll write about that soon. Moving on…
Jazz and I have been working out for the past week. We head over to the gym in our apartment complex each night, and he gets on a bike and I plod away on the treadmill for about 30 minutes or so. I haven’t worked out regularly like this in a long time, and it feels great (!)… so far. I started doing some strength training also, although my arms are abnormally weak and so I can’t do too much right now. Today I lifted 20 pounds on this machine, and could only do about 30 reps total. I tweaked my bad knee on Thursday and so my knee has been stiff since then, but it doesn’t hurt.
Sometimes I get really frustrated with my body. I realize that I shouldn’t expect to get onto a treadmill the first day and run 7 miles, but as I’m plodding along at 3 mph, my heart pumping, I remember how I used to run 3 miles in the same amount of time it now takes me to walk 1.5. It’s frustrating, but then I remember that this is where I’m at NOW. This is my body, for better or for worse. I *really* can’t divorce it. And I also remember that I am the reason that this is the way I am, and that makes me a little sad. I used to run. No, I used to be a runner. There’s a difference. And then I just stopped, I don’t know, caring. About me. This isn’t about my weight, this is about my level of exercise and how I felt about myself. I stopped caring and then stopped running or doing anything that challenged my body or made me feel ALIVE. Some people hate exercising; I agree, most forms of exercise are annoying to me, but I love to walk and run, and I’m glad I found that again.
Anyway, I’m glad I started exercising again. It makes me feel good, and that is the key, and that is all that matters.
