I am a woman without an exercise regimen.
I’ve got a million
reasons excuses: It gets dark too early to walk or run. I’m trying to figure out my basal rates, and I don’t want to throw another variable into the mix. My knees hurt. I have to go to the grocery store. The Y is too expensive. And crazy sphincter lady actually bought the yoga studio I once loved, so that’s out.
I wrote about this during Diabetes Blog Week, and I’ll say it again: I’ve always felt like exercise is a party I’m not invited to. It could be emotional scarring from the cruel days of middle school P.E. that makes me feel this way, or the hooting mass of backup exercisers who populated the Jane Fonda workout tapes my Mom played every afternoon from 1983 to 1994. Exercise always seemed like something other people excelled at, and those people always struck me as just a bit insane.
For years, I’d look at especially athletic folks and think, “Well, those people aren’t like me. They don’t have to worry about diabetes things.” But I’ve been forced to think differently during the last couple of years. I read and hear about people like Caroline running a freaking marathon. Or Ginger Vieira, who could probably kill us all with her bare hands, but uses her powerlifting talents for good instead of evil. Then there’s a whole slew of cyclists who manage to balance diabetes and road biking. Day by day, they’re chipping away at my stash of diabetes-related excuses, and it makes me feel like I need to figure something out.
As people in general and diabetic people in particular, I feel like we’re always hearing about the benefits of exercising and the potential harm of sitting on our asses. Exercise is good for our bones, our moods, our circulation, our insulin sensitivity, our skin, our hearts, our overall quality of life. I understand all this, and I appreciate it, but when it comes down to it, this is the imaginary scenario that motivates me the most: I’m in the woods or some other wild area, and I get chased by a wild boar. As hard as I try to escape, my legs and lungs and heart fail me, and I am gouged and eaten by said boar.
There’ll be a dramatic recreation on the local news that night, and after recounting the details of my grisly demise, the reporter on location will end her story with a line like, “These attacks are rarely fatal. Experts tell us that, had she been more physically fit, Mrs. Wojcik likely would have been able to outrun her porcine assailant.”
Thoughts like these make me want to exercise, and I want to look forward to it, but I feel like I’m out of options. Either that, or there’s some amazing form of physical activity that I’m naturally brilliant at, but haven’t found yet. (Rowing? Rock climbing? Hang gliding?) I have plans to try to do a beginner’s walk/run deal with my BFF this evening, God willing and the blood sugar don’t rise (too much). Wish me luck, and say a little prayer that the wild boars aren’t out.