I'm thinking tonight about that line from a Frost poem that says, "Something there is that doesn't love a wall." I'd like to amend it for my life...
Something there is that doesn't want me to exercise.
Tonight was the third night this week of exercise but the first time I got there. Monday I was busy with a family tea, Tuesday I chose to grieve two premature deaths on the phone instead. I was ready to get back to it tonight...ready enough that I hustled, despite being tired, after my shift of serving seniors dinner. Hurried up to my room to get into sweats and tennis shoes. Hurried through the dining room to fill my water bottle. I was ready to feel the burn, even if I had to start out with heavy legs.
It was going along fine...we opened with cardio activity (was it 10 minutes or 15?....I don't remember for sure). Then it was time to do those things I hate, where we sit on the side of the stage, scoot our butts off the stage, and do some kind of reverse pushups or something.
I sat in a different spot than usual for this hated exercise.
The spot had a nail head sticking out at the edge.
The nail head did a nice piece of work on the butt of my sweats...a perfect L-shaped tear, big enough to stick 2 hands through.
I retreated from the room, holding the gash shut, mortified. A friend saw my predicament as I waited for the elevator and loaned me a sweater I could tie around my waist to hide my shame.
I didn't try to return to class afterward. After all, the elevator took forever.
No...that's not really the reason. I really just kind of took it as my "sign" that tonight I was done. Which was, I am sure, wrong. What might have happened if I'd have been, like, bulldog stubborn and marched back down there in untorn pants as soon as I got changed?
I guess I'll never know.