Moving the goalposts

You’re flat on your back, staring up at some caged-in lights, hands grasping textured metal, trying to follow directions.

“You got this.”

I wanted to believe. And for a moment I did believe that I - a middle-aged woman who exercises on the medium - was capable of the task at hand: the bench press.

But I didn’t, in fact, have it.”

No matter how hard I pushed, strained, or willed my wobbly arms into action, the bar — which my accomplished and knowledgeable weightlifting friend had stacked for me with an appropriate amount of poundage —  would not budge. 

I’m not going to admit I was discouraged, because I had come to the gym without any goals I could build upon. 

Truly, I thought I would socialize and relax.

I was planning to meet some friends at a gym that doesn’t encourage grunting, walk on a treadmill, and, maybe, slip past the desk into a room where a chair rather than a human would provide a mid-tissue massage.

Instead, I followed the gang from one station to another, jumping, lunging, pushing, pulling … until there was actually something absorbing into my clothes that must have been actual sweat. 

Even so, it wasn’t the worst surprise.

That came when my friend hefted a large metal plate and hooked it onto the second lowest rung of the exercise carousel we had been spinning around. 

“Now … step-ups.”

And with the grace of a gazelle, the woman stepped onto the platform and rose as if on an escalator.

I didn’t even know it was difficult until she said “Your turn.” 

I stood in front of the plate and my brain started to bargain with my body about which leg should go first. 

“Start with the leg that is weaker,” she coached. “That way you set the repetitions so you won't over-exert. You will have an easier time evening out any imbalances.”

So I chose my left side, and I proceeded to perform what may have looked to the rest of the gym-goers like the dance of a mortally wounded bird or a drunken sailor … probably the latter.

What the … fudge!

She had just risen and descended as if her legs were made of bionics. I looked as smooth as a tremor.  

She lowered the plate to hit just a little higher than an average step and I came closer to looking normal when I stepped up. 

“Something to work on,” she said encouragingly as the others finished the circuit and we moseyed toward a contraption that looked as if using it required an advanced degree in aerospace engineering.

“We are now going to do 'assisted pull-ups'," my friend announced.

I did as she directed. I stepped here and knelt there. I grabbed that and just pulled myself up using only the triangular muscle in between my shoulder blades. 

“Don’t think about it too much, just try to feel the muscle lifting you up,” she reiterated.

I didn’t have faith that it would work, but I gave it a go.  When I felt myself rise from what I assumed might be the scruff of my neck, I wondered if I had succeeded. 

I had, she assured me. I had to admit, it wasn’t even unpleasant. 

“You can even step on the cushion and press down to strengthen your legs. If you lean forward you’ll feel the different muscles get stronger.”

When do we hit the massage chairs?

“After at least ten minutes on a spin bike and then a little bit of stretching.”

It’s good to have goals.