What happens when you do a brutally honest review of your
daily routine and finally admit to yourself in defeat, "I think I could probably
be considered to be a . . . Couch Potato par excellence"?
Hurts, doesn't it?
Create the sort of life you would want for yourself, if you
were writing yourself in, as a character in your latest book. A few words about
a character's fitness routine help to define in the reader's mind a very
specific picture of the character's physique and their physical abilities.
Are you really a Superhero in disguise?
Who are you, really?
You are, in part, a combination of all the stories you tell
yourself about who you are. Make your body's health story especially important
to you.
If your true identity is partially defined in your own mind
by the phrase "early morning yoga," then make it happen. Get up early
every day and do yoga! You can admire that character in the mirror, who sports
a self-assured and confident smile.
"Yes. Early morning yoga. That's just how I roll."
You turn to look at your naked back, reflected in the still-steamy bathroom mirror,
and you notice the relaxed roll of the curve of your spine. You admire the
smooth firmness of your shoulder, and enjoy the graceful ease with which your
arm effortlessly extends overhead to touch the invisible stars in the bluest
sky you've ever seen in your mind. You silently express your gratitude to the
patient teacher who first introduced you to the joys of using your body to make
pretzels and trees and other shapes which you never imagined you could stretch and
bend yourself into, but somehow did anyway, once you accepted the loving
encouragement of your exercise partner, the you inside you, who wanted you to
succeed and become the best you that you ever could be. It was all hard work,
but so, so worth it, and you'd do it all again if you had to.
I once read that the venerable "Mr. Rogers" of children's
television fame had a practice of swimming for an hour, every single morning of his adult life.
I know that Mr. Roger's success story is inspiration enough
for me. When I heard it, I immediately imagined myself, pushing myself to the
limits my lungs could stand, hand over hand doing the crawl, racing an imaginary
Mr. Rogers in the lane next to me, as I completed lap after lap, while looking
forward to the camaraderie we would share in the locker room while we toweled
off, Mr. Rogers and I, and then headed off our separate ways, him to the studio
to perform yet another flawless episode of my favorite TV show, me to my own
daily routine, which also included a fabulous and productive engagement with the
others who shared my world.
Yet, I have never seemed to be able to find my way to the pool
at the local YMCA at 5:30 in the morning, bathing suit and towel in hand, ready
to join the other early-morning aquatics-minded fit-sters. Not even once. I
have had no problem in getting there, in
my mind. But somehow, the making of my body to do the specific motions, to
behave in cooperation, to complete the steps I need to perform in order to
fulfill this mission, has seemed to me to be nothing more than one more
unaccomplishable goal; yet another brilliant and valiant quest, quite
unconquerable, as would be a too-tall towering Everest in the middle of a winter
blizzard.
I know the body of my alter-ego is a physical specimen ready
and prepared to do real work, and not just to work out. It is always eager and
able and looking for opportunities to help others:
- to move furniture for an elderly woman, who is down-sizing into a small, manageable apartment, from the three-bedroom colonial in which she and her recently-departed husband raised their three adorable and now grown and successful children, who now have children of their own, and who live on the other coast, too far away to assist their surviving parent in person,
- to babysit for a set of twin terrible-two's, to give the new and exhausted young parents some well-earned relief, so they can enjoy each other's company for a few moments or at least catch up on their sleep,
- to run a 5K for charity, simply because it is Saturday morning, and that is what I do every Saturday morning—I run—to make a difference in this world, while I still can.
So, why is it that I am still here on the couch? Not yet
begun on the kind of journey on this planet on which I can embark only if I
keep myself in good physical condition? Why?
Maybe I should write myself in, as a character, in a mystery
novel.