Today I re-joined the gym. I was at the surgeon’s today for my final followup, and he said it was okay, I was good to go and it wouldn’t hurt me.
I used to go to the gym three or four times a week, up until 1999 when my life exploded. I got divorced, and suddenly there was no money for extras like the gym, and certainly no money for babysitters so I could go to the gym. Sadly, at a time in my life when I could have benefited the most from some healthy self-time, I couldn’t manage it.
Thing Two turns seventeen next month. He no longer requires a sitter. I quit smoking, so I have about $120 per month in “found money”. I used some of it to sponsor a child through Plan (something I also used to do in the old days). The rest, I think, is for me, and what better use could it go to than my own health?
Ever since the surgery, and for many months before that, I have had no energy whatsoever. Just getting up has been a chore. Hopefully, this is about to change. I know from experience that when I’m working out, I also eat better and sleep better. Also, I have developed an alarmingly weird body shape since the operation. Things have shifted around in a most unpleasant way. I should have anticipated that, I guess, as I know they don’t just pack you full of styrofoam peanuts when they remove a major organ and a ginormous growth, but it didn’t occur to me how drastic the change would be. It also didn’t occur to me how badly I would react to it emotionally, even though I was fairly forewarned.
What happened to the good old days, before gyms, when we just did everything for ourselves, and did it by hand? No one needed gyms, daily living was enough to keep one fit. Well, if I don’t have time to walk to work, I sure don’t have time to churn my own butter and bale hay, so I guess it’s a necessary evil.
Prepare to be bored by Tales of a Gym Rat!