The alarm clock went off at 5:45 this morning. I dragged myself down the stairs, sleep still in my eyes, for a pre-work yoga session with my iPad (some apps are indeed useful), under the vigilant gaze of Ottie, strategically positioned in front of the open window, trying to catch whatever early morning breeze he could get. The yoga lady in the animation video, and her steady and soothing voice telling me to essentially do the millionth push-up when my arms already ache, is not helping the overall feeling that I should have stayed in bed for an extra 45 minutes. And then I think of my toned arms and I give in to her instructions.
I am not obsessed with exercise the way I used to be in my 30’s but I do make a point of finding time for a workout of some sort between 3 and 5 times a week. With a full-time job that can have crazy hours, driving distances that need to be factored in my social life, two dogs and a house to run it can be easy to find excuses not to work out, hence the early morning sessions from time to time. Going to a proper gym has rarely worked for me – my local yoga studio, 5 minutes drive from my house, is all I can muster. A gym would require a 3 hour time commitment I can rarely spare. So I get creative: besides a mix of hard-core and tamer yoga sessions at home or with a teacher, I stocked up on dance aerobics dvd’s and invested in a good pair of shoes, years of Pilates have left me with a solid mat work I still practice, I sprint and jog with the dogs up and down the surrounding hills where I live. If I am anywhere near a pool and nobody is watching, I will push myself to see how many laps of my shoddy swimming I can get to. Sometimes it’s challenging to find the motivation, sometimes I am really good at talking myself out of it but, mostly, I do it. Just like in those Nike commercials. Why? I have recently wondered.
Common sense and doctors tell us we should. I live in a city where looking fit and youthful has become a tourist landmark. It makes me feel good. These are all valid reasons I am sure I share with many of you but when I stopped to really think why on earth I would willingly rise before the sun to work out, I found a subtle shift in motivation. In my ’20’s, 30’s and, possibly even 40’s, I wanted to look good – I wanted my legs to be mini-skirt worthy, my butt to look perky in jeans and leggings, my abs to shine under cropped t-shirts. In essence, the motivation, if not explicitly, was sexual. Look at me: I could be your worthy mate, for a night or a lifetime.
Now that I have finally gotten to the point where that kind of validation has no meaning anymore, now that I am old and confident enough to like most of who I am and live comfortably with what I don’t, I really do it for myself. Now that I wouldn’t dream of wearing cropped anything or any skirts above the knee (unless thick tights and boots are involved – maybe), it’s just for my own pleasure that I gaze at my flat stomach or wear a 20-year-old pair of jeans.
Last week I noticed a co-worker, a bit on the heavy side, wearing a pretty white blouse I complimented her on. Yesterday she sported a lovely embroidered top that revealed her recent weight loss. She has still some way to go to get to where probably she wants to be but her pride and satisfaction make her glow and she has clearly rewarded herself with some new clothes. Herself, she is doing it for herself which is the biggest motivation of all.