Gently Raging

Got up this morning at six to go workout.  Yet again.  I've been at it the better part of eight weeks now.  That I'm working with a personal trainer and paying big bucks for the privilege assures that I am sticking to it. Unfortunately, it doesn't get easier.  Well, it would but she's on to me and just when it seems I've got the hang of whatever exercise I'm doing, she adds a variation making it just a bit more challenging.  I remember well answering her question about how I felt after our very first session,  "Great!  You didn't make me sweat or cry and that's good!"  While I haven't yet cried, believe me, I'm sweating now!

This morning she asked me if I could tell any differences in myself and my body since beginning this self-imposed torture (my descriptive phrase, not hers).  Yes.  Yes, I can.  Things that used to jiggle a lot seem to be jiggling a bit less.  A tummy that used to remind me of being three months pregnant seems to be lying a lot flatter with less effort on my part.  I feel more confident performing some of the exercises she runs me through.  Less wobbly on the balances; better form.  That kind of thing.  And the weights, though not all that heavy in the first place -- two and three pounds -- seem lighter to me even though I'm doing more repetitions.

So why am I putting myself through this expensive, self-imposed regimen?  Age and conceit.  I am reminded of the phrase from a poem,  "Do not go gently into that good night.  Rage, rage, against the dying of the light."  At least that's how I remember it going.  And that's what I'm doing; I'm not going into my sixties gently and I refuse to allow age to slow me down or become an excuse for gaining weight and losing my shape.  I'm raging in my own age appropriate way.