I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions. It’s not that I have anything against them; I’m just usually so drained after the holidays that the last thing I want to do is think of ways to improve myself. I’d rather just see how things play out and go from there. But a few years ago, I had a change of heart. I resolved to step into a place that intimidated me to no end: the gym.
The goal wasn’t to lose weight or become more active, but to stop being so insecure about exercising in front of others, a trait of mine rooted in a scarring middle-school PE experience. (I was the last person to complete a race, and my teacher helped alert the entire class to that by shouting “Go, Victoria!” as I huffed and puffed down the track. She was, and probably still is, a heinous bitch.)
As I walked toward the workout room that first time, I imagined all the ways I could publically humiliate myself: I could use the equipment incorrectly, drop weights on the ground, fall off the treadmill, etc. When nothing went wrong, I found the courage to keep returning, even when my athletic ineptitude sometimes shone through. I’ve dropped weights and used equipment incorrectly. I haven’t fallen off the treadmill, but my MP3 player has several times, occasionally almost hitting someone. It’s mortifying for about five seconds, until you realize that few people notice or care.
Of course, as empowering an experience as it is for me now, I haven’t actually been to the gym in months. But that’s because of laziness, not fear; surely that counts for something?
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