It is hard, after eight days on the road and very little physical activity, to love my body right now. I drive thirty minutes into town just to work out. After over two thousand miles on the road, this feels like a breeze. Two-thirds of the way through my run I feel my bum ankle start to ache dully. Rather than push it, rather than condemn myself, rather than doing something I might regret – I actually get off the treadmill this time and finish early. I step on the scale before entering the women’s locker room and read a number similar to the one I read before the holidays, For this, I congratulate myself – until the personal trainer (and my friend) Jason hollers across the weight room: “Katey, grab the scale out of my backpack there, it’s more accurate.”
I oblige but to my dismay, I come up with a number that is twelve pounds heavier than the first scale. “I like the other one better, Jason,” I shout back as I sling my towel over my shoulder and head for the shower room.
Tomorrow I will dress up and wear sexy underwear, if for no other reason than to feel better about myself. After my workout, I might even write my thank you cards at the café instead of at home, just so I can be out and about in the world and get some face-to-face human interaction. Then I’ll come home and call my massage therapist for an appointment.
I refuse to make a New Year’s resolution about changing my body; been there, done that. What I am is what I am. I did not choose my genetic makeup and I cannot reset my metabolic rate. I work out because it feels good (when my ankle doesn’t hurt) and I like the way running shapes my muscles. Losing weight happens as a result, but if I make that the end-all-be-all I only end up feeling worse about myself.