Essay on Exercise 

​

Generally speaking, I am not the type that says "Good job" or "Way to go buddy,” punctuated with a high five and a whoop. My earliest memory of grade school P.E. was the choosing of teams. No matter the sport, I would inevitably be chosen last, bar one - the down syndrome girl who thought of herself as a cow and liked to graze on the sports field.

​

In high school I considered P.E just a convenient class in which to smoke pot and stare at the ceiling while at the racket ball courts.

​

Then, in London in the ’90’s, my fate was sealed - I had a cooler than cool

boyfriend who flat out told me I should never EVER run, no matter what. Not on account of it being hard on the knees. His advice was purely based on his belief that when I ran I looked like a giraffe. Since that day, what I consider to be exercise has consisted mainly of A: Vigorously rubbing body lotion on my legs, or B: Walking up the stairs in the metro.

​

The next keep-fit memory that comes to me is at age twenty-five, when a most trusted and chic friend, Maria Galliger told me that no one, no one, should work out until they are really, really old, which I interpreted to mean that it might be time start moving, maybe take a pilates class or  brush up on the tennis game. A different boyfriend then suggested I come to the gym with him. I remember

looking at him like he was crazy.

Thirty-five rolled around. I had a kid, and made excuses. I mean pushing the

Bugaboo stroller around and lifting baby? Surely that was exercise enough.

​

Suddenly I was forty. Then forty-one. Then forty-two happened and the situation was chronic pain after back surgery. Still, I made more excuses. Of course running was out. I mean, who wants to be seen, loping like a giraffe?

​

Still, I purchased the most fantastic pair of purple and yellow neon running shoes, (“Rough Terrain,” no less).I’d wear them to get coffee in the morning like I was drinking my congratulatory cup of Joe, post work out. This worked wonders for my soul; all it took was a pair of leggings and a big T shirt and I did not even have to wash my hair. Then, two things happened:

​

1. I lost all sense of ego and moved to the country. 

2: I lost all sense of ego and tried EVERYTHING.

​

The next thing I knew, I had signed up for something called "Boot Camp.”

Boot Camp! My heart skipped a beat when I realized that I could wear my rough terrain running shoes, and even don a jogging bra, which was hilarious as I’m

totally flat-chested.

​

At the park was a collection of ladies in a myriad of conditions - women of all ages and shapes -all with amazingly good attitudes. Then I saw the trainer - a virtual goddess, a muscle-bound gazelle, fine and sleek and slender. Her muscles rippled. Her hair was tucked under a baseball cap.

​

“Ok ladies,” she barked. “Let’s take a warm up lap.” 

​

I raised my eyebrow and was just about to explain to her that that it’s totally

impossible for me to join in,  what with my bad back and past giraffe trauma. But then I thought NO, just shut up and get on with it - just do the fu#@ing lap!

​

I was laughing out loud as I ran because it was amazing, me, running with people, in a group - well almost. I was running near a group but still, I felt elated, accepted. I had an instant, endorphins-fueled, total love for life and for all mankind as I ran at the end of the line, behind the car pool moms, behind the cute, young, single professional types in hot pants, behind the divorcée who could stand to lose a few, behind the shapely, Hispanic woman who insisted on wearing spandex, behind the eldest of the group, whose white hair spilled out from her neon yellow hat. Behind her was me, wearing my purple and yellow running shoes and a huge smile.

​

Then the one hour circuit training began: push ups, knee taps, weights, medicine balls, fire hose drills, sit ups, jumping jacks, (I was dying), squats, lunges, (I was dying). Still, I’m proud to say I tried my best. And afterward, I felt fantastic!

​

This is what it means to be a jock; jocks are happy pushing themselves. It makes them feel good. Maybe I was wrong all these years? Instead of wearing black

eyeliner, smoking, napping and generally being unenthused i.e “cool,” maybe I should have been exercising in groups and playing on teams and high-fiving and cheering on my pals.

​

Each week I improve - just like the boot camp ladies all said I would. Each week I am encouraged by shout outs, and each week I  feel the love when I hear, “You can do it!” Each week I feel the 'feel good’ aspect of exercise. It’s almost like I’m in a Nike or Gatorade commercial. I am thrilled even to be in last place around the track as I hear a "Go girl! You’re doing great!” from my comrades.

​

EndFragment

Amelia Fleetwood

​