Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Given the option, I would pick tennis over “working out” every single time, but there are times, such as now, when choice is sacrificed at the altar of convenience. It seems like a trifling distinction. Both call for physical exertion and commitment. But while tennis is fun and sustainable, working out, well, must be endured.

Last week, I stepped onto the elliptical for the very first time, driven by a clarity of purpose. Change had arrived at last–or it would, as soon I could figure out how to turn on the goddamned machine. I pressed buttons–all of them–but the “OK” button did nothing, nor did the little arrows, nor did the pre-set program toggles. Pushing buttons singly and in tandem arrived at the exact same outcome, which is to say jack shit.

I was completely stumped. Ashamed, sure, but also slightly relieved at the prospect that maybe, just maybe this was fate confirming that working out was truly a terrible idea. Then I started moving my legs, and the control panel blinked to life. How twisted the logic seemed, where action was required to power on the device, in lieu of a switch.

The inaugural run was brutal, with BPMs reaching levels that couldn’t possibly have been healthy. I remember thinking in a sweat-filled haze how much the console resembled a fucked-up Lite-Brite utterly devoid of joy. I considered stopping. And then I considered manning up. “You will not defeat me, Electric Torquemada,” I declared to an empty fitness center, and finished my 2.25 elliptical miles. With three sessions under my belt now, it feels like this may be sustainable. 15 pounds. That’s all I need from this chamber of dried tears and broken New Year’s resolutions.