For years, I was a self-conscious gym wreck.   I stared in awe at the gym princesses with their nimble stringbean bodies, not a droplet of sweat soaking their Lululemon, ugh.  Sculpted forms pedaling away at the bike, gracefully lifting weights with French manicured nails, shaking their scant booty in Zumba.  The men, forget it.  Horrifying!  I watched those chiseled bodies checking themselves out in the mirror, pumping and flexing then scoping out every buttocks in proximity, which finally motivated me to do sprints, but straight out the door.

I’m a starter and quitter.  At times, I’d stop obsessing about jiggles and wiggles.  I’d think about my overall well-being versus shimmying into a size 2.  But here’s the deal, after a few sweaty, sticky workouts, my resolve would cave, and instantly, I could give a crap about health.   All the ads for noxious diet shakes and pills, the sickeningly thin and gorgeous actresses staring through fake lashes, and my insecurities bubbling up to the surface like lava would win.  I needed that sculpted-flat-lean body.  Here’s the catch though, the drive for this superficial thing always ended in gym-sabotage because why keep at it when the end goal is unattainable perfection?   Scarfing Ho Hos suddenly seemed more apropos, and I’d straight up quit.

As I started to approach 40, I felt something beyond the height of my boobs shifting.  I was ready to face it, after using these hips to birth three kids and packing on the weight to house them properly, my stomach will never be hardwood-floor-flat.  And with my kid-centric life running me ragged, I don’t have tons of time to go hog wild with the stair stepper.  What I do have is about an hourish (when stars align), and I’m now using this time for me, instead of to fulfill my dreams of becoming an aged Victoria’s Secret model.  Guess what, it seems to be working!

Now that I’m more, “mature in years,” I’ve learned some things that keep me semi-sane and semi-fit.  Here’s the low down:

1. Who needs a scale in the house? I haven’t weighed myself on that monster in over ten years.  Here’s why.  Scales make me a nut job.  The moment my feet hit the scale, Poof!  I am just a number, and usually, an irrationally deplorable number.  And even if the number seems pretty okay, I’m thinking, hmmmmm, maybe I could shrink it by pushing myself harder at the gym (highway to burnout) or by eliminating that glutinous roll I savor at lunch (I deserve the damn roll).  So what do I do at the doctor?  I always preface my appointment with, “I don’t want to know my weight.”  The nurse never looks at me like I’m certifiable, instead she abides by my wish, and I step backwards onto Satan.  Believe me, a doctor can still tell you there’s an issue without revealing an exact number.  Plus the way clothing is glued to your bod is a pretty accurate measurement of your status in the weight area.
2. You can act the fool. You can let it go in a group exercise setting without fear of judgement.  First, nearly everyone in there is sucking as badly as you. And, if they’re not, they’re so focused on their own body, they don’t care how many times you face planted.  But, if they have the audacity to count how many times you missed the grapevine and did a leg lift instead, you don’t want to be BFFs with them anyway.  Take that you skinny pilatesfreaks!  Wait for it…. I even wedge myself into the front row now, so I can see the instructor.  Ballsy, right!  Nope, you can do it too.
3. Being active doesn’t have to be freakin’ awful. Try to find friends there who are as self-deprecating as you are, so you can laugh and chat through workouts.  Locate a gym without ogling men or that clique of glamour girls who make you want to vomit. If the activity you selected consistently pisses you off, then don’t be a wacko.  Stop it right now and take another stab at it.  Take cycling, for instance, it straight up hurts my crotch.  No thanks.  Running, every joint in my body throbs like the bass in a Lady Gaga song.  Not gonna do it. Now Zumba and dancey type classes give me the chance to wiggle my butt like I’m up in da club, but without staying out past 8 p.m.  Boom! I get to shake what my mamma gave me, which includes big boobs and baby-maker hips, and it’s exercise.  Take hip hop lessons, try fencing, or do Judo!  Just sayin’ you got options.
4. Embrace something new. Like my foray into boot camp.  Hmmmm… Paying someone to scream and exhaust me when my kids provide this service for free?  I’ve done one class so far and was a deer staring at headlight after headlight on the highway, only to be mowed down in the end.  But the cool thing is the other loons in the class were positive throughout- all “good job” and “you did great for the first time” and “Here’s what a burpee looks like, so drag yourself off the floor.” So although the day after I felt like someone had punched me in the gut, slammed all my joints with a hammer, and then rolled me down a steep hill, I thought I had done something right.  I’m trying to teach my kids to stop their whining and to suck it up when things get tough, so I figure I should yank on my big girl panties too and give boot camp a few more goes.
5. If you feel exhausted, and you just can’t possibly do it, do it anyway. So many mornings I want to use teething-filled-all-nighters as an excuse to stay home snuggling the couch watching reruns of Catfish, but instead, I pack up all my crap, strap the crying baby into the van, and hit up the gym.  And yes, free childcare is an incredible motivator, but so is my sanity.  Almost every time, my fatigue, fury at the kids and husband, and the aching feeling that I won’t survive the day, dissolve.
6. Take it easy on yourself if your body is screaming at you to slow the heck down. Every so often I go into the gym feeling like a lump, and midway into whatever I coerced myself into doing that day, I feel lumpier.  In those moments, I try to nurture my body. Instead of calling myself a lazy butt, I honor my psychotic life by pulling out the TLC that day.  Instead of pushing myself to the point of resentment, I blast my Kanye and do something less vigorous than usual.
7. Stuff will come up that throws you off your game (think ravaging stomach bug, work stress, or even a sunny vacation), but don’t let that stop you. Instead of stressing, find ways to stay active if you can or want to.  Hey, cleaning throw up off the floor can be a workout!  And, I was infamous for conning coworkers into “walking meetings.”  Escaping the florescent light opened us up to creative conversations and helped my skin hue. If you are on vacation sipping mojitos, the last thing you may want to do is take a stroll, and your idea of a curl is for that jumbo coconut shrimp and a press is the button for room service.  You have permission to relax without feeling guilty.
8. Try to meet yourself where you are. This is so much easier said than lived.  As a woman who struggled with an eating disorder into my early twenties (yep I’ve been too many pounds lighter and more than fifty pounds heavier), I’m still constantly striving to be amicable with my body.  I try to remember how lucky I am to have a body that’s always performing for me and even shot out little crying watermelons.  And though there’s a jiggle in my middle and trying to do a set of simple push-ups is as excruciating as watching an infomercial, this is because three amazing kiddos hid out under my abs for 9 months a pop.
9. If you’re not ready to commitment to exercise, that’s cool too. Been there done that. Flogging myself about it only made things worse. I’ll never forget a therapist I saw in my twenties.  I sat there sobbing about my weight.  “I’m fat,” I told him.  “Join a gym,” he said and proceeded to tell me all about his workout regimen.  Wrong answer, Dr. A. Hole.  If I had the motivation to join a gym, I would have, and I wouldn’t have paid out of pocket for this cultured pearl of wisdom.  All that guy did is spit all over my feelings.  At the slight risk of being hypocritical, there’s one exception to this rule.  If your spouse is telling that you need to get your butt to the gym, Keith, you best be doing it.  There was something in our wedding vows about to have and to hold and that you would look like Ryan Gosling forever.
10. In complete seriousness, beauty is not defined by your body. You are an incredible woman with so many talents and attributes that transcend skinniness.  I tell my seven year old as often as possible that she’s beautiful.  I look into her crystal eyes, and it’s all so true and real when I tell her that beauty is on the inside- it’s how loving, giving, and kind she is.  It’s not quantifiable like age, BMI, weight, or the number of workouts in a week.  I just have to continue to hold myself to this same standard.  You can too.

*Did you know ushe was spelled this way??  http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=ushe