Leggin' It

Over the years, I have come to understand and appreciate that I will always actively pursue self-improvement and – in fact – embrace transformation. This is a part of my nature, and it seeps into all that I do and think. I’ve grown to enjoy this aspect of my character, for the most part. There have been times, however, that I’ve cursed myself for not “letting things be.” Today is one of those times.

I am a fairly active person, yet I am forever shadowed by the feeling that I am “not quite active enough.” I could – after all – be doing more. I am certain of it. My certainty stems from the hours and hours that I’ve spent THINKING about how I could be engaged in physical activity rather than whatever I happen to be engaged in at that time (often work, or driving, or talking to someone who bores me immensely….) It is also confirmed by all of the fitness magazines that I read, which demonstrate all sorts of clever little exercises and have indicated that “just a few minutes” of said exercises, when repeated at regular intervals, will “completely transform my body.” This, of course, inspires feelings of immense inadequacy, as there are OBVIOUSLY women in this world who are – at this very moment – radically transforming their bodies, and I am not one of them.

The culmination of years of these thoughts, plus my new personal recession, led me to the determination that I MUST learn to exercise in creative and stimulating ways at home. The final determining factor: I now have enough space to do it in. Whereas in my last apartment I did not have room to even – say – turn in a circle, my current living space is chock-full of assorted roomy expanses of openness. These are spaces that could easily be filled with exercise bands, yoga mats, weights, and more.

And there you have it. On Wednesday, before embarking on my outing for the evening, I decided that I would get some exercise, and I would do it at home. Feeling quite pleased with myself in advance, I collected an assortment of fitness items from the office and toted them to the living room, where I spread them about and stood, for a moment, admiring them.

To begin, I picked up a pair of ankle weights and slipped them on. (These had never before seen more than two minutes of use – I honestly cannot remember what I was thinking when I purchased them. I must have read something in a magazine about their transformative powers.) Experimentally, I lifted my right leg off the floor and swung it about. The ankle weight was not even noticeable.

Hmmm, I thought, a bit disgusted. What sort of equipment is this? It does NOTHING.

Mentally shrugging, I began my “warm-up.” This was the part designed (by me) to raise my heart rate. Initially, I ran in place – alternating between lifting my knees high and kicking my heels behind me. After about 30 seconds, I grew bored. I began inventing dance steps, and soon found myself trotting about the living room/kitchen/hallway area with flair. The first time I zipped past the rabbits, heels bouncing jauntily and arms swinging wildly back and forth across my torso in an exaggerated ark, they both froze in horror, eyes widening. The second time I passed, now skipping, they both disappeared in a flurry of loose rabbit fur. From the recesses of Lulu’s cage, I heard a “thump” of warning. The rabbits, it appeared, were not advocates of the at-home exercise regiment.

Meanwhile, the birds were transfixed by my performance. This was the best entertainment that they had witnessed for quite some time, confusing as it was. Occasionally, Keats emitted a soft and questioning noise.

“Wheeew?” he asked, turning his head sideways to see if my behavior made any more sense when viewed strictly from the right side of his head. “Wheew?”

When I finished my cardio portion I moved on to the floor for abdominal work. It was at this point that Petula’s world crashed about her. For reasons that I do not understand, she finds my eight-pound purple weight ball terrifying. Until Wednesday, I had no idea. The first time I tossed it into the air, she let out an ear-piercing shriek of terror. I was so surprised that I nearly missed catching the ball on its descent toward my abdomen. After a moment, I decided that it must have been a fluke and again launched the ball into the air. Once again, Petula shrieked in horror. This was – I admit – a touch irritating. Ignoring her, I proceeded with my routine. Her shrieks escalated the entire time, eventually reaching the level usually reserved for “Stage 5 Needs Attention.” The squawks at that crisis level have been known to bring humans running from all sections of the building.

I could not help – at this point – wondering what the people across the hall were thinking. Earlier that evening, I had spotted a couple with a small child arrive. I assumed that they were preparing the place for the return of the temporarily displaced resident, an elderly woman who required in-home care. (The paper towels and bottles of Ensure on the stairwell supported this theory.) Since their arrival, the male half of the duo had been spending a LOT of time on the balcony, talking loudly on his cell phone. Since I could hear him very well through my open patio door, I imagined that he could hear Petula just as well. I was unable to peek out there, as I had not bothered dressing for my exercise routine (I had decided that one of the perks of an at-home program was the ability to perform it in one’s underwear) and had been doing my best to avoid the door and window, given my attire.

Ah well, I thought. That will teach him to loiter on balconies. He’ll have to spend the rest of his day wondering what in the hell goes on across the hall from his mother. (At least I THINK she’s his mother…. Based on the phone conversations I overheard.)

I was approximately twenty minutes into my bout of exercise, engaged in some more heart-rate acceleration, when I suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort in one of my calves. I frowned, glancing down. The other calf responded with an equally uncomfortable twinge, and I decided that it was, perhaps, time to remove the ankle weights. The twinges passed, leaving a strange sort of numbness behind, and I ended my session. As I went for a walk afterward, capping off the day’s exercise, I noticed that my legs WERE feeling a bit sore. It would, I decided, work itself out.

Imagine, then, my surprise when I awoke yesterday to find that my legs refused to function normally. Generally, the deal that we have between us is that I’ll swing them out of the bed, placing my feet on the floor, and they’ll then support the burden of my weight as I lift off of the mattress. It appears that – sometime over the course of the night – our deal was renegotiated without my input. When I attempted to stand, in defiance of our newly amended agreement, they retaliated by cramping – the entire backside of them, with extra focus on the calves. This was most unpleasant.

As time has passed, and I have continued to defy the terms of our new contract, they have grown increasingly resistant to our partnership. Today, I sit in my cubicle plotting the manners in which I can stay seated for the maximum length of time before I am forced to stand and engage in the activity formerly known as “walking.” The movement of my body from one location to another has become a lesson in humility. As I hobble, I do my best to pretend that I have not noticed the strange contorted shape that I present, or the negative-mile-per-hour pace that I am keeping.

I now know that truth about those evil and deceptive weapons dubbed “ankle weights.” No matter how long it takes, I shall track down the magazine that recommended them, and I shall extract revenge. This new me – the slow-paced hobbler – is not a transformation that I welcome.