The Seven Stages of . . . whatever

When someone dies the affects are far reaching. There are seven stages of grief: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing and acceptance. I have learned firsthand that when someone vows to live a healthier lifestyle (start exercising regularly, eating better) the effects are just as far reaching and, like the plagues against the Egyptians, one by one the stages descend (in their own way) on the one wishing for a hard body and anyone too nearby.

Shock. “You exercise?” People who knew me back in the day don’t know whether or not to believe me. In elementary school I couldn’t even run once around the speed away field in PE. I took no physical education classes in high school and only what was required of me in college, so it's also rather surprising to me that I exercise. I still feel like I’ve wandered into a parallel universe when I walk into a gym. When I exercise at home it’s like I’m rehearsing for a role in a play; it’s not really me. 

I started exercising in my early 30’s – I’m 53, I think, so it’s pretty much a habit now. I’ll declare one day, “I will not exercise today.” Then, like an out of body experience, I’m putting on the costume. "What the . . .?" Then I’m on the bike having had no say in the matter. I get off the bike and, like an abductee who lost time while aboard the mother ship, I look at my sweaty self and stumble off for the shower where, in the stream of water, I come to. And the real shock? After exercise, candy (my major food group) doesn’t even sound good. It’s like I’ve been brainwashed: I’ve been known to eat salad. I’ve been known to eat broccoli.

Denial. Years ago: No! I will not take exercise clothes with me on the cruise. It’s a cruise! I don’t care how many pounds the average cruiser gains. Now: I can’t believe I’ve actually taken exercise clothes with me on the three cruises I've gone on. And I used them – for exercise!  

“That’s not me in the mirror.” I try to tell myself. As I’m the only one in the gym, it’s a hard sell. My thighs have shadows. I could dress behind what hangs from my arms. After all these years spent diligently exercising, how can this be? Don’t even try telling me it’s the chocolate. Or the Pepsi. I won’t have it.

Situation: Douglas and I in Toronto staying in a very expensive hotel. The guy behind the desk wanting a $20 gym fee for each use.  Me informing him that I'm a guest. (He knew that; if I hadn’t been a guest it would have cost more.) Me not buckling to this modern day highwayman climbing up and down the stairs – 40-something flights – twice a day to keep up the habit. Gads.

Anger. This sweat is gross. What’s the point? I still have cellulite. Sell-you light? Sell-you-leet? I don’t even know how to say what covers 30% of my body. I still can’t do a chin-up. Yeah, yeah, I know. There are higher reasons for exercise like growing old gracefully and having a strong heart. Keep telling yourself that, sister, keep telling yourself that, but I’ll tell you that if I ever have a heart attack, it’s all off.

The treadmill gives me blisters, the bike gives me diaper rash. Once, when I was in the gym in Munich, the marines came in to work out. Great. There I was on the mat in the last 10 minutes of my abdominal routine, face 9-1-1 red, the small of my back sticking and releasing making loud farting sounds. The marines decided it was a good idea to exercise outside.

If I hadn’t eaten a steady diet of Vienna sausages and Spaghetti O’s in my youth I wouldn’t need this torture. So help me if I get diabetes it’s all off! No more of this misery. This is my mother’s fault. And my father’s. He always wanting ‘gedunk’ and she . . . she . . . she something!

Bargaining. If I exercise today I can have the Pepsi. If I do an extra 10 minutes I can have the Doritos. If I eat salad for dinner I can skip exercise altogether. Hmm . . . If I eat salad, which has practically no calories, and I exercise, then I can have the Doritos and the Pepsi. 

I know, I’ll give up sugar for Lent and reward myself with See’s Candy for Easter. Yeah, but Sundays don’t count. I can eat candy on Sundays. Sunday begins at midnight so I can stay up late Saturday night and have whatever I want. Because it’s Sunday. If I accidentally eat something really, really early Monday or latish Saturday it shouldn’t count because it’s Sunday somewhere and with Douglas’s and my Foreign Service lifestyle it’s hard to acclimate so it’s not really my fault.

Depression. I don’t like broccoli. I’ve been forcing it down for years now and I still can’t stand it. Supposedly it cures everything from anemia to zits. But if I get cancer it’s all over. It’s me and chocolate from then on out.

And I don’t like getting so tired on the bike. It scares me. You know that primal fear feeling in the pit of your stomach? Isn’t that supposed to be a warning of some sort? Flight or die? And it’s hard pushing against the tension of that machine. Oh, man, it’s come to this. I have to put myself on a machine just to try to get in shape. No matter how much weight I lose, no matter how much I exercise, my thighs are still bulbous, dimply and pudgy.

I had surgery once - had a couple of things removed. Afterwards I went right home and excitedly weighed myself. Only I could gain weight after having something removed from my body. What’s the use, man? I gained weight when I first started getting serious about exercise. “It’s muscle weight.” My friends said trying to cheer me up. Right. And where is all this muscle? Buried underneath seasons of blubber, never to be seen.

Testing. Maybe if I just live more actively I can skip formal exercise. You know, clean up the house a little every day, work in the yard. I’ll bet farmers never get on a exer-cycle. And I really think I’m on to something with that salad and candy theory. It all comes down to calories, right? Candy is empty calories, that’s bad. Bok choy is empty of calories, that’s good. If I choke down the bok choy and eat the M&Ms it should even out in there. If everything I put in my mouth besides candy and Pepsi and cookies and ice cream is nutritional it ought to work.

Gravity is the real enemy, not chocolate. If I spend more time inverted then the flab won’t creep down and hang around my knees. I’ll just stand on my head equal time . . . and . . . I . . . someth . . . I awoke being slapped in the face by a well-meaning janitor in the gym at the Munich Consulate.

Acceptance. I’m paying for the sins of my past. I guess it’s not that bad. I’m bound to sit on that bike for at least a half a sweaty hour a day for the rest of my life to support my habit. It’s not like I’m in prison being punished for crimes against society.

I’m not fat. I know this. I just want my legs to look more like Angelina Jolie’s, only shorter. I have two of them and they work and that’s good. I’m told I look good for my age. Uh, thanks.

True acceptance, it is written, comes from seeing who you truly are and knowing what you are capable of and being serene when faced with what you will never be and so on and so blah . . .

True acceptance for me is, “Yes, please. I'll take the chocolate mousse. Make that two, it’s kind of like Jell-O and there’s always room.”