Being In My Body

At the end of August, I joined a gym. I had been resisting such a move for years, citing the expense, the environment, the lameness of such an endeavor. After all, if you want to run stairs, go run some stairs--what good is a stair-climbing machine in front of a bank of televisions?
The thing is, I wasn't running stairs, at all. And while I wear a size two, I've been unhappy about my aging, sagging, sized-two extraness for awhile. I don't want to be a fat old lady. I don't want to be a fat 30-something lady. Hell, I don't even want to be a lady, so I had to start somewhere.

VBM is a fitness nut. He is a gym devotee. He looks the part, too. He has a lean, svelte self. Sometimes in the mornings, I'll be taking a bath and I'll watch him shaving, his back to me, rhomboids rippling. He works hard for his no-double-chin having, gut-free life. Sometimes he'll say to me, "I'll be home late. I have a nine mile trail run and then I have to lift weights." I'll be like, Ok. I'll be at home, eating bon bons on the couch. He manfully rides 30 miles up a hill on Saturday mornings on his mountain bike. Me? I walk the dog, go grocery shopping.
I don't want to be Jack Sprat and Co, if you know what I mean.

When I chose to join the gym, I also bought a package of personal training sessions, because I didn't really know how to do what needed doing. My trainer, Regina, is a beautiful woman. She is made of stacked muscle. She is tough. She laughs with me. She kicks my ass. At first I saw her twice a week for half an hour. Now I see her once weekly for half an hour. She is teaching me, each time, new things. Painful new things. With her, I was okay being a beginner. Since then I have procured a heart rate monitor, and four days a week I do some sort of crazy cardio workout on the elliptical trainer, while three of those days I also do a half hour or so of strength training afterwards. I have developed plantar fasciitis, a painful inflammatory condition of the feets, so I must keep walking on pavement to a minimum. Running is out of the question.
I have not lost one pound.
In fact, I have gained weight.
This is mildly disappointing.
I have, however, lost inches, and I can happily wear even some of my size one clothes from before I started feeling I had some extra on me, about 5 years ago. Why'd it take me 5 years to get off my ass and do something about it? I don't know.
When I started with Regina, I could do 8 pull ups. Now I can do almost 30 if I am fresh. I can run on the elliptical almost indefinitely at 70% of my max heart rate. Push it up to 80, like today, for 45 min, and I'm wrecked for the rest of the day. I did also train with Regina after that 80% workout, but I still feel like I am a mess.
What is the result of all this work? Hard to say. I must be getting really strong. There is the faintest hint of definition in my belly. Really faint, though. My beloved tiny slim gray skirt fits me like it used to. I'm thinking about wearing some jeans without a long jacket. The best part, though, is all this exercise is causing me to be really present in my body--at least several hours a week. It hurts. It is difficult. I sweat more than I ever thought possible. But sometimes, I feel like I could do more than I have in a long, long time.