Competing Objectives

Yesterday I began working with a personal trainer. Which is ironic when you consider that I hate to exercise.. about as much as I hate taking vitamins. Okay, maybe “hate” is too strong a word. How about “REALLY hate.” Back in the days when the Bunny was still doing his 50-mile bicycle rides every other weekend (before the Roadstar), I was the one who could always be counted on to stay home and cook up a nice spread for the gang when they finished riding – appreciative recipients in one of my favorite activities: cooking for friends.

I’ve always been at odds with my physical appearance. I feel it brings me too much attention already, and one of the by-products of conditioning my body is that it potentially might look better to others. Yikes. If this were the only consideration, it would be enough to motivate me to NOT exercise (no matter how cute the personal trainer). But before the Bunny died – when we still had the luxury of discussing death in those hypothetical terms that people tend to use when they are young and relatively healthy – he made me promise that should he die, it was my mission to take his ashes to the top of Half Dome. For the uninformed, Half Dome is this huge mountain in Yosemite National Park. The Bunny and I were married in Yosemite, in a meadow directly in front of this very mountain. The Bunny himself had hiked up Half Dome at least twice previously, that I knew of. Myself, I never had the slightest inclination to leave the campsite, much less strap on hiking boots and spend the better part of a day traipsing around on some mountain. According to documented information, it’s approximately 15.5 miles roundtrip (with a 4737-foot altitude gain). If you are looking for me, I’ll be napping in the tent.

Exercising elicits a wide spectrum of feelings from me. My trainer’s intent is for me to “get more in touch with my body” which draws a strange parallel to my formative years, when I tended to suppress all of my true feelings and emotions because what with all the trauma in my life it was just too overwhelming – there were too many intense feelings to process. Getting in touch with my body implies that I have to care about my body, I have to love my body, I have to nurture it, take care of it… right now, my body and I have this truce, more or less. I need to be nice to it or it’s going to screw me over. So it receives the bare minimum – food, rest, regular cleanings, etc. But love and nurture it? Hmmm. That’s a lot to ask.

Just to annoy me, my body’s reactions to exercise range from “making me feel nauseous” to something almost sexual. As I said, it’s a wide spectrum. Kind of like people who are addicted to drama, and feed off of the extreme highs and lows. So it makes it hard for me to get my head wrapped around what I am doing; to develop a rhythm… also working against me is the recognition of my goal – my goal in exercising is to climb up that mountain. My goal is to let go of the life I had with the Bunny. At this very moment, his ashes are sitting in a box on my dresser. The box is wrapped in plain white paper – the kind of paper you would wrap a fine piece of china in, to protect it from damage during a move. The kind of paper you would wrap seafood in, a nice piece of salmon that you found at the meat counter. It’s anything but pretentious, mostly unnoticed with all the clutter in my bedroom – but I notice. Every time I walk in there. Every time I go to sleep. Every time I put my clean socks and underwear into my dresser drawers. I notice, and I remember.

I go back to work with my personal trainer in four days. He’s coaching me – and trusting me – to do these exercises on my own, at home. He is absolutely confident that if I work hard, we will get me and the Bunny up that mountain, approximately 10 months from now.

Getting myself back down, alone… is entirely up to me.