My new found love (but don't tell anyone).

Yuck, dare I say it? Indeed I dare: Exercise.
That damned word.

After 4 disgustingly long weeks I went back to the gym. Ok, I went a couple of times last week but this week it got serious. Plus I jumped back on the treadmill which I hadn't done in months (I've stuck to the elliptical).
I've always hated exercise. There were countless things I could have enjoyed more than getting sweaty and out of breath just to feel sore the next day (though there are activities in which I'd get sweaty and out of breath and be sore the next day which are acceptable. Oh yes. I'm scandalous). In high school I was always that kid that waited until the teacher turned around to stop doing the required push ups. I chilled behind the bleachers while everyone tossed a ball around until I got caught. I'll admit that last one also has something to do with my inability to play sports: I am embarrassingly uncoordinated. I only dressed out to get credit for the class because there was no way in hell I was going to do it again the following year.
All hate aside I still joined the gym. I go on hiatus from time to time but in the end I always go back. I don't just do it so I can look good in a bikini: I do it for my health. Those old people walking around with oxygen tanks and writing "stroke" or "heart attack" in their health history freak me out. Morbidly obese people who struggle getting in and out of their scooters at the grocery store scare me too.
So I go to the damn gym. I wear the ugly running shoes. I put on that tight and unflattering sport's bra (even more fun when you take it off drenched in sweat). I use the dreaded cardio equipment for half an hour. I sit in those damn torture chambers a.k.a. the various weight lifting contraptions. I've finally forced myself to work with free weights. I try to balance my uncoordinated ass on the exercise balls. I complain the whole. damned. time. Every time one the chipper employees ask me how I'm doing I grunt and say: "Sweaty."
Ugh.
Sure, I feel pretty proud that after getting away with the bare minimum in gym class when I was 14 (walk, jog or run a mile in under 15 minutes, guess which I did?) I can now out run the girl who did so much better than me 6 years later. It's sure. Let it be also said that she also played soccer and softball all 4 years.
Then something clicked on Monday. I'd been afraid to get back on the treadmill because even though I'd kept up my cardio on the other machines I thought I wouldn't be able to run like I did 5 months ago. On Monday my preferred machine was taken so I said "screw it" and went for it. I cranked up the level to my usual and took off. "Five minutes... hmmm not so bad... 10 minutes... Holy crap I'm not out of breath yet... 15 minutes... Mile and a half, hello!" Ok after that my short attention span got the best of me and I upped the speed to unnatural levels. After 3 minutes I was ready to die, but still! Nice job , Julia! You've still got it! I felt so good.
I realized something. I know a mile and a half in 15 minutes is not the greatest accomplishment in the world. Plenty of people do better but you know what? It's a huge accomplishment for me and it feels good.
Sure, I still have some sweet love handles and every step I took during those 15 minutes my thighs jiggled like pudding (not quite jell-o anymore). In the end, though, my body is capable of a lot. It only takes me a minute to regain my composure and catch my breath. That's good, right? My heart is in good condition. My lungs are in fairly good shape. I am proud of that. As long as my body can do all of these things I can put up with Butthole pinching my belly roll.
I'll admit I hurt my shins, though. I think running for 3 days straight after 5 months was a bit rough. I'll have to alternate between treadmill and elliptical but hey! My retarded shin splints can suck it, I can out-run the treadmill!