Alia
09-19-2009, 11:49 PM
Over the years, I have tried (and failed, usually) various home exercise equipment. I have purchased ab-rollers, ab-rockers, twisters, steppers, treadmills, riders, bikes, you name it I have seen an infomercial on it and got it.
Usually, within 6 months each piece of equipment ended up being a repository for laundry awaiting ironing. Eventually, they would end up in the trash, or given away to someone else who heard of the miracles they could produce and wanted to try them. I was always relieved when they left the house because they were a permanent reminder of my failures.
At one time, there were no less than six pieces of home exercise equipment in my basement. But time passed, and the only piece that made it through the insanity of my expanding waistline during the 80's and 90's was one of the last I purchased: a recumbant exercise bike. A good one, too. Solid. Has a weight limit that is slightly more than I weigh.
Upon diagnosis with D, I had my DH haul it upstairs and put it into the place where the television was before I decided it was not helping my weight situation and got rid of it.
I needed a plan, but it had to be one I can use. I have to lose this lard.
I started out with walking, just walking. There is a small park near our home with an oval walking path that is a quarter mile around. The day after I was diagnosed, I knew what I had to do. I got dressed, put on my beat up old sneakers and got my butt out there on that track.
Huffing, puffing and sort of embarassed, I trudged through two circuits around before I couldn't go any further. Red-faced, sweaty and breathing heavy, I walked to my car and sat crying in it for a few minutes. How did I get to this point? How could I let my body just go all to h ell to the point where even walking was both painful and a supreme effort?
Humiliated, but determined, I came home that first day and thought about the whole experience. I was only out about fifteen or so minutes, my back was screaming in agony, my feet hurt and I was drenched with sweat. I was convinced that everyone else who was walking that track was looking at me and thinking, "Pfft, who does she think she's kidding? She looks like she might keel over any second now!"
The house was quiet, my husband was at work. I decided that no amount of my own pity party was going to get me to lose weight or get fit so I shrugged it off and climbed onto that bike in my living room. I rode it for fifteen minutes at a very low resistance level and then called it a day.
The next day, I got dressed and walked that track. The day after, the same. Soon I was able to walk three times around. Soon after that, four times around. Five days a week. Sometimes six.
Six weeks or so later, I now can get around that track four times at a good clip. Then I come home and ride the bike for a half-hour. During the half-hour on the bike, I increase the speed from 12 to 16 mph and increase the resistance to 6 for one minute every five minutes.
Last Monday, we received a check from the sale of my husband's old lease car. We went out and purchased a good elliptical machine. I can only do two minutes on it. Right now, at least. But I know I can do this, I CAN exercise. I have not felt this good, both physically and emotionally in at least a decade. I am not going to give up anymore. I am not going to feel sorry for myself anymore, because I have the power to affect my body in a positive way.
When I get toward the end of my 45 minutes a day of working out, I feel myself getting tired. Sometimes it is because I exercise at the end of the regular work day, sometimes it is just because I don't really love to exercise. When I am working through that last aching five or ten minutes on the bike and the urge to quit early hits me, I start running this little mantra through my head with every pedal:
I don't want to be so sweet,
I don't want to lose my feet,
I will watch the food I eat,
So I'm going to keep the beat.
Hokey, maybe, but it keeps me going until the end. I still don't care to exercise, but I don't hate it nearly as much as I thought I would.
It is my own private h ell. But at least I am not suffering as much these days.
Usually, within 6 months each piece of equipment ended up being a repository for laundry awaiting ironing. Eventually, they would end up in the trash, or given away to someone else who heard of the miracles they could produce and wanted to try them. I was always relieved when they left the house because they were a permanent reminder of my failures.
At one time, there were no less than six pieces of home exercise equipment in my basement. But time passed, and the only piece that made it through the insanity of my expanding waistline during the 80's and 90's was one of the last I purchased: a recumbant exercise bike. A good one, too. Solid. Has a weight limit that is slightly more than I weigh.
Upon diagnosis with D, I had my DH haul it upstairs and put it into the place where the television was before I decided it was not helping my weight situation and got rid of it.
I needed a plan, but it had to be one I can use. I have to lose this lard.
I started out with walking, just walking. There is a small park near our home with an oval walking path that is a quarter mile around. The day after I was diagnosed, I knew what I had to do. I got dressed, put on my beat up old sneakers and got my butt out there on that track.
Huffing, puffing and sort of embarassed, I trudged through two circuits around before I couldn't go any further. Red-faced, sweaty and breathing heavy, I walked to my car and sat crying in it for a few minutes. How did I get to this point? How could I let my body just go all to h ell to the point where even walking was both painful and a supreme effort?
Humiliated, but determined, I came home that first day and thought about the whole experience. I was only out about fifteen or so minutes, my back was screaming in agony, my feet hurt and I was drenched with sweat. I was convinced that everyone else who was walking that track was looking at me and thinking, "Pfft, who does she think she's kidding? She looks like she might keel over any second now!"
The house was quiet, my husband was at work. I decided that no amount of my own pity party was going to get me to lose weight or get fit so I shrugged it off and climbed onto that bike in my living room. I rode it for fifteen minutes at a very low resistance level and then called it a day.
The next day, I got dressed and walked that track. The day after, the same. Soon I was able to walk three times around. Soon after that, four times around. Five days a week. Sometimes six.
Six weeks or so later, I now can get around that track four times at a good clip. Then I come home and ride the bike for a half-hour. During the half-hour on the bike, I increase the speed from 12 to 16 mph and increase the resistance to 6 for one minute every five minutes.
Last Monday, we received a check from the sale of my husband's old lease car. We went out and purchased a good elliptical machine. I can only do two minutes on it. Right now, at least. But I know I can do this, I CAN exercise. I have not felt this good, both physically and emotionally in at least a decade. I am not going to give up anymore. I am not going to feel sorry for myself anymore, because I have the power to affect my body in a positive way.
When I get toward the end of my 45 minutes a day of working out, I feel myself getting tired. Sometimes it is because I exercise at the end of the regular work day, sometimes it is just because I don't really love to exercise. When I am working through that last aching five or ten minutes on the bike and the urge to quit early hits me, I start running this little mantra through my head with every pedal:
I don't want to be so sweet,
I don't want to lose my feet,
I will watch the food I eat,
So I'm going to keep the beat.
Hokey, maybe, but it keeps me going until the end. I still don't care to exercise, but I don't hate it nearly as much as I thought I would.
It is my own private h ell. But at least I am not suffering as much these days.