Why My Morning Exercise Wasn't Brought On By the New Year

Photo provided by Unsplash

Names have been changed to protect the sweaty.

The best time of day for me to work out is before I even know that’s what I’m doing. It needs to be as early as possible, before coffee has brought my neurons together and every cell of my body can scream at me.

“No! Don’t! Don’t sweat. Don’t grunt. For the love of God, don’t pant!” 

The fat cells are the loudest, never wanting to improve, only wanting to grow and divide. They prefer me in a nest of pillows on the couch eating chocolate most of the day, waiting for something to happen, like a Parisian courtesan.  

They must not win. 

So, I set my phone alarm and then navigate to the app that hosts my reservation for a 6:30 am boot camp. Then it’s lights out.

When the alarm goes off, I stumble around in the dark, dressing by dim lamplight, pulling on my shoes with bleary eyes and cavernous yawns. If I were awake enough to think about it, I would resist stepping out into morning air so cold it stings my face. I would resist driving barren roads not yet populated by people who are still sleeping. I would resist huffing and puffing with eight other women, who I hope don’t notice my T-shirt darkens with sweat within minutes of our workout. 

This isn’t ‘New Year, New You’ inspired. Like most women my age, I paid my dues with diet culture. I let societal expectations and the “wellness” industrial complex determine who I was. A few years ago my life was a mess of supplements and diet workbooks and my mind was a mess of other people’s assessments about my body. So I changed. Now I workout for me. For my mental health, I do what feels right — sometimes that means I snowshoe and sometimes that means I run on a treadmill and sometimes that means I wake up before dawn to sweat with strangers.

6:31. I’m at the gym. A woman stands at the front of the room. She must be the boot camp counselor. She has dark hair and dark eyes and a curvy figure, which I find heartening. There are women of all shapes and all ages here. We are not here to erase or flatten or empty our fullness. We are here to get stronger, to feel accomplished, to prove to ourselves we can do hard things.  The dark-haired woman expertly shows us the moves we are to make, and then the modifications to make our work out easier or harder, depending on our preference. 

My preference is easier — obviously. 

It’s 6:40 and we’ve finished stretching. It’s time for the real fun to begin. I pick up something called the landmine press and wonder if anyone will notice if I take some of the weight off. I perform a squat and then raise the bar over my head. It’s not so bad. Then I do it again. And again and again and again until it IS so bad. My muscles are like a soldier willing the general to announce a retreat. Why are we doing this again?  

6:41. I move to the next exercise. A woman near me grunts. I don’t grunt — too unladylike. But I admire the women who do. Especially Hope. Hope lifts heavy weights and lets out a guttural, animalistic cry when they are too heavy just so we know how hard she’s working. Hope ties her hair in a high ponytail that whips around like a helicopter when she runs. Hope looks good in compression pants. 

When I work out, I look as if I’m intensely concentrating. I want my neighbor to think I’m counting reps or envisioning the next exercise. Instead, I’m plotting breakfast. It’s 6:54 and I’m intensely hungry. Eggs. Whole wheat toast. Sliced tomato. Hot sauce. Perhaps a sprinkle of grated cheese. What else? My forehead crinkles, my eyes squint shut as if in a prayer. I’m not trying to get through these last seconds of this exercise, but instead trying to remember if we have avocado in the fruit basket at home.

It’s 7:12. I try not to notice the time, but I’m giddy when I realize this torture is almost over. My brain is awake now enough to realize that I’m doing this and I don’t like it. I am 18 minutes away from getting to eat breakfast.

7:25. The boot camp counselor leads us through some cool down stretches. I made it! 

It’s 7:30. I leave the gym with a tall chest, not only from the new sports bra I got for Christmas, but also from pride. But mostly from the bra. 

7:40. I’m home. There are no avocados.