Dear Universe: Thanks for the snow melt.
The roads are finally navigable and I just got back from the gym, my first time in more than a week. I can't believe how great it felt to just rip it up for a couple of hours. On second thought, yes, I can believe it.
I was feeling pretty blah before I hit the gym--plagued by anxiety and doubt. But once I started flinging those weights around, my confidence returned. As I progressed through my workout, a sense of elation set in. My mood is so easily improved by working my body hard. Some have accused me of being addicted to going to the gym, and maybe they're right.
A little history: I started exercising just before the end of my 15-year marriage. When I began, I weighed 170 pounds and I was not really known as an upbeat kind of person. In fact, I would say I was a more than a little depressed. I had done exercise programs before--including a two-year-stint at Curves that did absolutely nothing for me. This time, the gym I joined happened to have a group weightlifting class set to music. I had always wanted to lift weights, but was shy about trying, like too many women, I was afraid of hurting myself.
The group class suited me fine. I could watch the instructor and learn how to lift safely, and it was fun! My body began to change almost right away.
Not long after I started that class, my relationship blew apart in a fairly spectacular way. I spent long, lonely hours in the gym, venting my rage though the elliptical, the free weights, the treadmill.
I do have an addictive personality, and I give thanks on an almost weekly basis that the gym was what I gravitated to at that difficult time. Because it could have been booze. Cigarettes. Could have so easily been food. Now, a year later, I'm 35 pounds thinner, a shitload stronger, and a lot healthier. A lot happier, too. So, yeah, I'm addicted to working out. What's it to ya?