Fit Happens

I’m not sure that I’ve ever enjoyed a single element of physical fitness. My parents didn’t make a hard push for us to be involved in sports, and our pantry was a haven for fat-free, chemical-laden snacks. Snackwell’s Cookies and Diet Coke were household staples.

Through my oh-so-cruel teenage years I struggled with a trifecta of issues: acne, yo-yoing weight and glasses. Exit: self esteem.

In college, I learned how to cook and started caring about nutrition. I was on the cusp of making a change until friends were gossiping about how I was considering a formal weight-loss program like Weight Watchers.

So I boomeranged. I gained back weight that I worked so hard to lose. Mixed drinks that I passed on, weekend evenings spent at the campus gym; meaningless when matched with college cattiness.

When I moved to New York, I focused more on work and food became an autonomous after-thought. Bagels for breakfast, Thai for lunch, and leftovers for dinner. I tucked away concerns about my nutrition in favor of reminders of my professional success.

Any good publicist or communicator knows that deep down even the most convincing spin can’t stop a crisis from bubbling up.

I’m faced with an unsavory family medical history. My father had a heart attack, is a type-2 diabetic, and has Parkinson’s. My mother has been a fad dieter for as long as I can remember. Together, these characteristics and diagnoses are a recipe for disaster.

Confronting a need for change meant — and still means — that I need to accept and profess imperfection.

A harsh reality of “adulting” — a phrase which is standalone proof of my millennial status — is that as we age, healthy choices and changes are harder to make. More roadblocks pop up, and we have a Seinfeld-style rolodex of excuses to slap on nearly any situation.

As someone with self-professed control issues, it took an appointment with my beloved internist, complete with a well-meaning guilt-trip, for me to come to terms with the path I was haphazardly tiptoeing down and to stop myself from reasoning away my wavering health.

Accustomed to manicures and Ubers, I like the idea of little luxuries. Personal training always felt out of reach to me. I revolve around my personal and professional relationships — I do work in social media, after all — and I couldn’t imagine bonding with someone who was privy to my vulnerabilities.

And then I met a trainer I clicked with. He’s not a buff-bodied bozo. Well, he’s not a bozo, anyways. Time in between sessions is filled with text messages and snapchats. I have a newfound sense of accountability to myself, and to him. Better yet, we’re approaching 40 sessions together and I feel stronger, happier and more determined than I ever would have thought possible.

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There are things that I kvetch about — kettle bell swings are my kryptonite — but ultimately I enjoy each and every workout, because I’m challenging myself. My trainer is my sense of control — which for me equates to comfort. He motivates me through my curmudgeonly approach to exercise, and coaches me to embrace my physical and nutritional potential.

Making time to train twice a week has become second nature bordering on necessity. Every day is a challenge — to be active, to eat smart, to drink water and to stay positive. But the challenge is refreshing, and quite frankly, I like toning muscles that I never knew existed. Lots of road is left to cover, but I’m committed to the journey because I’m committed to myself.

 

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