I sound like an old lady these days. "Oooh, my abs!" I squeal, as J makes me laugh about something. I'll go to lift something and my upper arms and the muscles over my ribs (what are those called?) will protest and I wince at the unaccustomed pain.
I signed up at a gym last week, one that offers a 30-minute kickboxing circuit. My punches are still kitten-weak, but every time I go, I learn a tiny bit more about correct posture and explosive force. At least I know what I'm aiming for, even if I can't deliver yet. Vancouver winters are seldom cold, but the constant rain can make a wimp out of fair-weather runner like me, so when I accidentally discovered this gym, so close to my place, I checked it out right away and signed up, an early Christmas present to myself.
Yesterday I was huddled on the couch most of the day, tired and depressed. You know those days when you dig a tunnel of despair and are so obsessed about it that nothing can help light your way out again? Not the company of J, not the whiff of our lovely little Christmas tree, not coffee or- well, you get the picture. J's advice was to stay put and rest, but I knew that only one thing would help: action. So I got on my bike and headed down to the gym. 30 minutes later I was red-faced and sweaty, but the fog had lifted from my brain and I felt more alive than I had in days. I was able to go out that night and revel in the company of friends, and see my way out of the dead-end that my mind had been languishing in.
That's worth a whole bunch of sore muscles, in my opinion.
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