A little less talk…

I have always been an exerciser. No, wait, untrue. I’ve always played the part of one, but never really been a great one. There. Much better.

In high school I was fit. In college, I put on some weight, but it tended to be “in all the right places,” according to the guys I dated. I never really figured out what all the right places were to be fat, but apparently I had ’em. After college, though, all hell broke loose in this body of mine.

I got married really young (I was 20). I found myself in the months leading up to my wedding and shortly after having absolutely no energy. I was cold all the time. I slept until 2:00 in the afternoon on the days I could, and had no energy or desire to take care of anything in life. I gained weight…tons of it. I probably packed on an easy 30 pounds in about 5 months. My hair was falling out, and worst of all I was a complete and total psychopath.

My new husband was telling me once that he was going to go meet up with his old friends right after work for a couple beers, but would be home early. This threw me into such a rage that I actually grabbed my keychain pepper-spray and threatened him with it. Needless to say, he didn’t go to the bar.

I went to the doctor shortly after that episode, and found out that my thyroid hormone was so low, that it was virtually non-existent. So THAT explained the problem. I started taking the pills I am required to take daily, and things started to look up. I felt good enough to talk about exercise again.

Notice I said “talk about.”

During that first few months of marriage, I remember “talking about” a lot of things. I’d talk about cleaning the house, talk about emptying the cat’s litter box, talking about studying for my college courses I was taking, talk about exercise, and yes…talk about sex. I did very little of the aforementioned activities, but I sure did talk.

Fast forward a few years, thyroid’s under control, I’ve popped out a couple kids, and I’m working at Curves for Women as a trainer. Life was good. I looked great. I still carried quite a bit of weight, but I looked muscular and strong. My house was clean, my kids were happy, I exercised daily, and yes…there was sex. Even after two kids. There was lots and lots and lots of sex. Lots.

Next thing I know, all that sex leads to a third child. A third child leads to me not being able to afford daycare for three kids on my Curves salary, which leads me to return to staying home. Staying home leads me to being exhausted, understimulated, over-stressed, and completely fed up. Again, I was talking. Talking about cleaning, talking about doing crafts with the kids, talking about going to the park, talking about volunteering, talking about exercising, and talking about…sex.

I managed to go back to Curves and maintain some part time hours, which led to me working out again. I got out of the house, we bought a boat, joined a pool, and once again…had lots and lots of sex. Lots of it.

Somehow, though, in all this happiness, I decided it was time to go back for a real job. A job that would eventually require me to work 60 hours a week, be on the road a few times a year, and drain me of all the positive energy I’d ever had. I started talking about quitting…talking about having fun again, talking about having dinner ready at a decent time, talking about freedom, talking about boating, talking about being there for the kids, and talking about sex. I quit the job, and things started to look up.

Fast forward to a few months ago. I’m still staying home, and the kids are all in school. I was managing to get up every single morning at 5:00 a.m., and go to the gym. I lost forty pounds, and I looked good. I bought a bikini to wear on the boat, bought a pair of size 7 jeans, and strutted my 31 year old self around like a teenager. Funny thing happens when your body feels and looks as good as it did in your twenties. Sex. Lots and lots of sex. Lots of it.

I’ve been out of the gym for awhile. Hurt my back one day, and that sidelined me for a week. Then after that, I just couldn’t make myself go back. I was too embarrassed to walk back in. Of course I talked about it. But the snooze button on the alarm was just too tempting. I talked about exercise. Talked about getting fit for the boating season, talked about getting in shape for the kids, for my parents, for my husband, for myself. Talked about the muscles I’d built, talked about the endurance I was building…talked about how much sex we used to have.

I got up Monday morning and went back to the gym. I didn’t just talk about it…I did it. I got home feeling sweaty, dirty, smelly, but most of all…strong. I felt beautiful after one day there. I’ll go back again, and we’ll see what happens. As far as the other aspects of my life? Well…husband’s working late tonight…but I’ll let you know, maybe.

Leave a Reply