Last week I took a break from the gym. It was my first since I joined up and more or less enforced by my trainer, the gym manager and my own anatomy. You see, many years ago I hurt my knee badly enough to need fairly drastic surgery and have needed to exercise (ha ha) a certain amount of caution ever since. Of course, that does not stop me rushing about in my usual pell-mell manner on perilously sharp and high heels, occasionally pitching into doors, up stairs and down sidewalks with not-too-happy results, but I have never worried about my ‘bum’ knee since it was fixed. Not that I worried too much about it before it was fixed, since I had no clue that it needed any fixing! But a couple of weeks ago it started hurting with the slightest movement and, after a few days of tottering across to the gym and gingerly going slower and slower on the treadmill, I finally admitted defeat. And took a few days off the exertion.
It was a strange feeling. After years of telling myself that I hated any kind of physical activity, especially the kind that made me sweaty and caused my various muscles to tick gently at rest, I rediscovered the fact that I actually like exercise. Many years ago, in what was almost another lifetime, I did lots of it, from dance to aerobics to even an abortive attempt at swimming – to no avail, I determinedly sank in any large body of water, so much so that I developed a real aversion to anything resembling a pool from a bathtub to a koi-carp pond. But I liked dance, be it the pure classical style that I had been taught for so many years or just hopping about in a discotheque or swaying vaguely idiotically to pounding beats in a dancaerobics class. It was movement, it was music, it was rhythm and it made a lot of sense to me, mind, body and soul. And slowly I found that I liked almost any sort of movement; it cleansed my skin with the sweat, it cleansed my psyche with the tiredness that allowed me to sleep hard and restfully and it cleansed my spirit and made me feel not just virtuous, but fresh and energized as well.
Finding that again was good for me. And I enjoyed it, through all the pain and sore muscles. But when I had to let it go for that whole week, it was not easy. I wanted that pull on every joint and that fatigue that made my calves and upper arms twitch gently. I wanted that feeling of having done something physical to get into better shape in so many ways, from the mental to the emotional to the bodily stretched-out-ness. I lurked around the house for that hour and a half that I am usually out in the morning, wondering what to do with myself and getting on my own nerves in the not doing of it. I teased Small Cat so much that she retreated under the living room sofa and refused conciliatory offers of chewy sticks and treat biscuits. I followed Father like a shadow all over the house getting on his nerves enough for him to suggest I read a book or do some cooking. And I trotted behind the maid from room to room until she asked me if I was not getting late for my usual morning outing.
My trainer insisted I would do only very light weights and restricted all activity to upper body lifts and stretches. When I ventured to suggest that we could do a stint on one machine or the other for the legs, he glared at me and pushed another set of reps at my hapless biceps, triceps, abs or other attenuated names for muscle groups. And he seemed to sigh when he saw me bounce into the gym with a broad smile anticipating a tough workout – and beamed approvingly when I sulked out an hour later with my top half sweating and twitching and my legs sore with disuse rather than exertion.
Be all that as it may, I am now getting back into the swing…or stretch…or lift…of things. We started slowly increasing the pressure on my legs today and though he was still rather cautious not to strain my knee and asked after every set of exercises whether I was ok, at least it was a start back on the road to recovery. I do feel like a bit of a fraud – and regressive to boot…or sneaker – when I find myself doing half my former pace on the treadmill, or slowing down on the cross-trainer, or not pushing that hard uphill on the recumbent bike, but I know I will be back up there soon enough. Now if only I could convince my knee that it would be a good thing….
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