I was being completely honest when I said my first day was good, that I felt it was a good start. But, where is the fun in just that? In the words of Paul Harvey, here is "the rest of the story..."
I arrived at home, after work on Monday morning at about 7:20 a.m. Knowing I would have to be up by 11:25 a.m., I greeted the dogs, I got undressed, brushed my teeth, watched about 15 minutes of TV and was in bed at about 8:15 a.m.
10 seconds after I closed my eyes (or so it seemed at the time), I woke to the screaming of my alarm, fumbled toward it, thought a few less than pleasant thoughts about it, and got up. Sorta.
By "sorta," I mean that I stumbled toward the door to my bedroom and down the stair half asleep, nearly stepping on the cat, who, only because of his constant skittishness, darted out of the way before becoming a feline pancake.
I made my way to the couch, and, you guessed it, went to sleep sitting up.
I got a valuable 13 minutes of extra sleep, and made my way to the bathroom. There, through closed eyes, I used the facilities by sonar (guys, you know what I'm saying) while my eyes were still closed with the refusal to accept that I was intending to stay up.
I headed back to the living room, contemplating another glorious 13 minutes of sleep, but decided to get dressed instead. I pulled on a T-shirt, and a pair of jeans, and wet down my hair to comb it (here is something only a very few of you will understand - I had JFK hair).
Fully dressed and hair combed, I grabbed my beach towel and trunks, and headed for the car.
I arrived at the YMCA shortly after noon. It is at this point that it dawns on me - I don't think I've been swimming since I was in college. I'm not sure why the thought struck at that exact moment, but it would certainly explain things later.
After scanning my oh-so-cool photo membership card (in which I'm wearing a fedora, because I had not combed my hair very well that day and was unaware that any photo-taking would happen), I made my way into the building, and was hit by another thought - I haven't been to the YMCA, other than to pay for my membership, since I was in high school for a youth group lock-in.
Not a big deal. I mean, I'm a "guy," right? My birthright was a God-given perfect sense of direction.
Well, after stumbling around the building, interrupting two basketball games, some weightlifters, and a pilates class, I stumbled onto... the tennis courts.
The worker at the desk there asked if I needed help. Yes, I cried, I'm completely lost, and alone, and afraid, and I want my mommy, and I want to go home.
Oh, no, wait... that is just what I was thinking. As a "guy" though, I couldn't say that. Instead, I said that I had merely never been back that far since I got a membership, and I was just seeing what was there.
Which wasn't really a lie. I mean, it was the first time I had been back that far since purchasing my membership, and I was wondering what was back there... hoping it was the pool.
Anyway, I turned with my "guy-ness" still intact, and headed back the other direction.
I came upon a door that said "Locker Rooms," and figured it was worth a shot. Bingo! Joy! Elation! I found that once inside, there was a door on the other side, clearly labeled "Pool".
And you thought I should've asked for directions. Hah!
So, I change into my trunks and head to the pool. I pick an empty lane and enter the delightfully lukewarm water. I glance at the clock to check the time, and I start to swim.
I don't know if it was the second or third stroke in that my body decided that I had lost my mind. I'm thinking the second. Anyway, it was clearly reminding me that I had not been swimming in a long, long time, and, despite remembering what to do, it did not wish to actually do it.
I pressed on. By the second lap, my legs were using desperate measures to try to stop me, threatening to cramp with each stroke. Not being one to bow to the whims of my own legs, I refused to stop.
After about 15 minutes or so, my body had resigned itself to the continued torture.
It was at that point that I realized I should probably take it easy for my first day. Instead of the planned 45 minutes to an hour, I'd only do 30 minutes.
At about the 30 minute mark, I thought, hey, I can do one more lap, just for good measure.
That lap was pretty good. So, I thought, why not another?
You've heard the expression about the straw that broke the camel's back? How about the one about the lap that drowned the moron?
I don't know if it was the fact that I had silently promised my body that the previous lap would be the last or what, but I struggled like a man having a fit.
When I finally made it to the end, I knew that was it. I would drown if I tried another.
I made my way over to the ladder. The first step was no problem. The rest? I can't describe the agony.
As I forced myself out of the pool, there were moments I thought I was going to collapse. I think it was only my fear of being mistaken for a beached whale and being pushed back into the water that kept me going.
With Herculean effort I made my way back to the locker room. I stripped off the wet trunks and, summoning up every ounce of strength I had, I got dressed.
I did manage to meet one goal in that locker room - I did not break into tears.
I made my way slowly out to my car, actually having to lift my legs into the car once I was inside. I drove home and sat in front of my house for a long, long time before going in.
I stayed up another couple of hours, just so I wouldn't stiffen up to the point of immobility. Through the grace of God and the glory of Aleve, I made it through the day.
Oh, I hurt. I hurt in ways I had forgotten I could. but I made it.
The next day, there was no way I could try the swimming again, so I decided the Monday-Wednesday-Friday would work well for at least the first week.
On Wednesday, I went again. I actually matched the amount that I did for that first day.
And, guess what?
It was still a horribly painful experience.
But... not quite a horrible. Not quite as painful.
I told people that I'd keep up the same pace until I no longer wanted to die after the swimming. That would be my indicator that I needed to add more, until I found my new threshold of wanting to die.
Onward and upward!
Type at you later.
Comments
If you haven't watched BGSTLSR yet, Its a reality based game show. Obese contestants ( christian and non ) sign up for a life change weight loss program and also hope to win big bucks while getting fit.
The transformations are amazing!
I don't have cable TV and out of the 4-5 channels I do get, BGSTLSR is a good alternative to all the sex and violence usually on.
I can only take so much of PBS. ( not saying they have a bunch of sex and violence tho. ) LOL
I should also mention that by the 2nd week, contestants are so much stronger ( not puking but still crying-some ) and motivated to shed the pounds.
There is still plenty of drama going on but I root for my favs and hope they shed a big number off the scale for the week. Lest they risk being voted off the show.
Again, this is a good alternative to what else is on TV.
-The Biggest Loser doesn't sound Christ Like at all, Mike. I've never been able to compleate a mile on even an empty stomach without it flying out my entire face
Sounds like you over did it.
Stretch! Stretch before you workout!