I remember when exercise used to be called playing. When anything in the yard (or in my sisters' hands) was something to play with and magically turn into something else. We didn't need a rocket to get to the moon. If we pumped our legs hard enough and we pushed the swing high enough, we might, just maybe, possibly, get there under our own steam.
The important part about it was it was fun!
The gym?
Well, I'd love to say it is fun. It isn't. Not always. I am working with someone who more than keeps me honest. But I never considered a small ball to be a torture device ... that steps leading nowhere were enjoyable ... that a bench isn't just for sitting on.
Yes, it sounds like I am complaining. And my muscles - under loved and under cared for - would agree. But it has opened my eyes up to the possibilities of the playground all over again. I may still not LOVE what I'm doing there, but the whole experience has been valuable. The trainer has been incredibly kind, even though she looks like the cat that swallowed the canary after I can no longer move and am drenched from head to toes.Besides, the recumbent bike has a great view of all of the junior college football team when they are doing their daily workouts. I might just learn to love it despite myself.
