The Goal:
I made a deal with a friend last week to be accountability partners in that which defeats us. The task was to accomplish a certain disliked activity for ten minutes each day. For me, it was exercise. For 21 days. Apparently, it takes 21 days to start a habit.
The Plan:
Every morning she calls my house, and in her five foot three frame bellows out her best drill sergeant voice, "GET YOUR BUTT IN GEAR!" And every evening I give her a call and sweetly ask if she has accomplished her ten minute goal.
It's been six days.
Day One:
I wake every two hours thinking it is my wake up call and I might miss it. I finally get the real call and grumble my way through my first workout. Grumble, grumble.
Day Two:
I do a light workout, and eat two licks of chocolate ganache. I'll do better tomorrow.
Day Three:
I start my exercise routine early, and call my friend before she even has a chance to call me. Ha, HA! I am amazing! Watch me go! I do an extra 30 minutes of pilates later on.
Day Four:
I am exhausted from Day Three. I sleep in. Mr. wakes me and says there's someone on the phone. Oh, man! I listen and hear, "GET YOUR BUTT IN GEAR, GIRL!!" I work out on the trampoline, like never before. As it happens, Mr. has hurt his foot and cannot go running in the morning. I roll my eyes at him. Baby.
Day Five:
I wake up in agony, and find it hard to move. My lower back has seized up so I take the day off from exercise. I can't lift anything, I can't bend over the oven, and I certainly can't get in the van to drive the kids to school. A neighbour takes my son to school. Another friend takes Little Miss for the day. The next day is my big cake sale and I am as stiff as a board!
Day Six:
At 2am, I am awoken by a 'charlie horse' in each butt cheek that even Mr. Man doesn't want to rub better. I'm screaming in agony. Memories flash before my eyes of squats, lunges, and trampoline jumps, and suddenly I feel so stupid. Four days of exercise and I have killed my body. I am old! In the morning I can't even put my own underwear on. I can't walk to the bathroom. I can't even shuffle. I am gasping, groaning, crying out in pain. I look over and stare at Mr. "I sleep through anything" Man until he opens his eyes and says, "What?"
I am reminded of the time, a few years ago when I decided to go for a "run." I jogged a kilometre or two, collapsed on my parents' front lawn and crawled into the fetal position, screaming, because my core muscles had all seized up. My mother came running out and kicked me because I had been so foolish. It was all out of love. I'm sure of it.
Well, today, several painkillers and a hot shower later, I determinably make it down the stairs and prepare for a successful sale. Which it was. Mr. Man (whose foot is feeling better) and Mr. Advil did all of the heavy lifting.
The Lesson:
I'm not sure. Maybe after the 21 days I'll let you know...
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