Working It Out
Meditations on feeling weak during hard times
I went to an exercise class today.
For most of my life, this wouldn’t be out of the ordinary — moving my meatsack has always been a priority for my mental health, and there’s a bougie LA bitch living inside me who prefers group workouts where grip socks and a membership are required.
Money is tight these days, but I discovered that sometimes studios will post free “community” classes on the MindBody app. Which is how I — someone who’s recently been using ChatGBT to figure out if buying a bottle of ketchup will ruin my grocery budget — ended up in a pilates class that’s normally $53. Per session.
Inner bougie bitch approved.
Since I’m still recovering from my violent tango with Lexapro, I knew the class would be really hard for me. It’s one of those places where they use a megaformer, which is like if a pilates reformer took the Jekyll and Hyde potion and turned into a big scary monster truck version of itself. Most of the exercises are done very very slowly to maximize burn (and crying).
But — hello — it was free and I relished the thought of feeling like my “old” self again.
The first time Tr*mp got elected, I joined a fancy boxing gym program where I kicked bags and lifted weights and dodged punches at 6:45 am three times a week. All of the students were women. We needed something to hit.
My anger fueled me then. It was the only time, ever, that I could do 25 push-ups on my toes. One of the girls in the class — who somehow fit inch-long acrylic nails into her pink boxing gloves — got cornered by a man in the street trying to take her car keys and she punched him in the face. “Just like we practiced!” she said. We cheered when she regaled the details. It wasn’t just some workout class, we were taking care of ourselves. When we looked at each other in the mirror, we could see how strong we were getting.
When I looked in the mirror today, I could see the worry that I can’t quite get to leave my face — it’s under my eyes and at the corner of my lips even when I’m feeling optimistic.
The class started and the teacher directed us to lunge this way, then balance that way. Plank. Press. Add a weight. Breathe.
My muscles started shaking immediately. The Taylor Swift music became unbearably loud and before long I was seeing spots. “You all look amazing,” the teacher said, sweat pouring down her face even though she was only walking around the megaformers and not on one.
I took breaks, I lunged but not too far. I planked on my knees, I drank water. But around the 40 minute mark, I knew I couldn’t continue. I let myself out of the studio and sat on the front steps in the rain, gulping fresh air and lamenting my now soaking wet grippy socks.
I’ll only be here for a minute, I thought. How many times had I felt like I was going to barf during boxing, only to work through it and come out stronger?
But.
How many times did I push myself this summer only to end up with my head in the toilet? A lot of times. Things have changed and so have I.
“One last round of planks, everyone.” I could hear the instructor through the door.
It’s not fair that sometimes you do hard stuff and end up weaker.
“You’re soooo close!”
I should be able to do a plank. I should be able to hold myself up.
I should be able to support myself.
Inside, I heard the class end and the other students give an exhausted round of applause.
If you’re having a hard time — I’m not sure I know anyone who isn’t right now, but maybe I live in a cute lil Glinda bubble — it’s okay to despair. It really is okay to be sad and scared. Let it out and then recover. You can’t always heal when you’re running a marathon.
Or planking on a mothereffing megaformer.
I love you very much and am proud of you.
