One Step, One Thousand Steps

I'm on kilometer number four and heartily wishing that I'd taken fifteen seconds to change out of my jeans and into some sweats before hitting the treadmill. Two kilometers to go and I am grumpily uncomfortable in the confines of unyielding denim.

A thought pops into mind -- a distant memory of a "diet tips and tricks" article that I'd read years ago. It was probably printed on one of many glossy pamphlet's promising sleek results in thirty days if I just went on a particular herbal regimen. This particular list of weight loss to-do's asserted that the first key to success in losing pounds is to wear comfortable clothing. This one step alone, they cheered, is a great motivator for movement.

As I trodge on, cranking the incline to it's maximum height, I think of how inane that suggestion felt to me at the time. At two hundred pounds with fussy knees and a head full of despair there was no way I was going to be motivated to keep my butt moving just by slipping into something a little more comfortable!

One of the stark realizations that came along with my initial baby steps toward health was that I was going to have to make friends with discomfort in a right rush. I had to accept that there was going to be absolutely nothing easy or natural about the thousands-of-kilometers journey I was starting.

In that first year I strapped on sneakers and whatever clothes I could squeeze into and I walked. Every day. Every day. I walked in hail, rain, and minus thirty temperatures. I walked with twisted ankles and screaming knees. I walked if I had the flu. I walked whenever time allowed ~ if that meant I didn't get out there until 10:30 at night, then I walked tired-out and ready for bed.

My body protested shrilly. My calves clenched into wooden shafts. I experienced heal spurs for the first time. My back grumbled and cranked, bitterly resisting each new pair of running shoes.

I was embarrassed. Mercilessly. I was big and jiggly and slow, so I took myself out into nearby fields determined to navigate rugged, bone-jarring tilled ground rather than expose myself on urban sidewalks. I didn't have any confidence that I was going to be successful. I only knew that I wasn't going to stop moving.

I was uncomfortable. For sixty minutes every day I thumbed my nose at discomfort in the hopes of leaving obesity and shame in those dusty fields. I didn't feel inspired or motivated. I made a choice and followed it through. I didn't feel self-satisfaction or increasingly fit and strong. I felt tired and unsure.

I decrease my incline and increase my speed. Now, many months and countless kilometers later, I can afford to think about whether or not I'm "comfortable" when I'm moving my body. If my knee's and back are screeching for the couch, I'll walk for 45 minutes instead of the usual sixty. I wear clothes that fit and move well. I take one day off in a week - if I feel like it. Usually I forget and just chug along. I use the treadmill on weathery days instead of insisting on heading outside in the wind and chill and wet.

I poke the "stop" button on the machine console. Dripping with sweat and vowing not to go the blue jean route again, I slip out of my worn out Zeller's brand sneakers and consider my culture and how it pushes against the discipline of discomfort. I'm aware that the allure of a soft couch, a bag of something salty, and a plate full of cookies will likely always have a strong draw on me and that, at any time, I may choose to leave off the work it takes to keep seventy pounds off my frame and out in those fields.

I punch the "off" button on the fan and head upstairs to slog an enormous amount of water. One more day of doing what needs to be done under my belt and off of my waistline.