Here’s a secret about me - I’m often envious of my friends. I have so many insanely talented people in my circle who can do amazing things with far less effort than it would take for me to produce something of fractional workmanship.
My friend Caitlin, for instance, is a singer-songwriter who plays multiple instruments and has an acumen for organizing that would give Marie Kondo a run for her money. Hannah, my younger sister, is an extraordinary baker who makes breads and pastries that could easily find a home in a boulangerie. And if you've been a longtime reader, I'm sure it comes as no surprise that I'm impressed by anyone who can do any sort of mental math.
And all you sporty friends out there? You’re the ones I envy most.
Because there isn’t an ounce of hand-eye coordination in this body. Not one whit, tittle, or scrap of athleticism lies underneath this skin.
My husband, is regularly driven bonkers by my clumsiness as he inquires about new bumps and bruises. “What happened there?” he recently asked, pointing to a fresh bluish tinge on my shoulder. "Oh that? I didn’t realize there was a doorframe.”
"Where?"
"Oh, you know. Anywhere."
James is as athletic as they come. In our earlier days of dating, I'd attend his basketball games and marvel from the bleachers as he dashed around the court. For the life of me, I could figure out how he managed to keep a basketball moving from hand to hand, through the legs, and finally into the net. Once, when no one was watching, I was inspired to try and and dribble a few times around an empty court.
And, of course, I ended up bouncing it off my foot and walked around with a bruised toe for a week.
After a while, I got tired of striving to become something I clearly wasn't. I gave up. No more exercise, no more dangerous attempts to dribble any round objects. I wanted to fully own my unathleticism.
‘Why strive when the fates have already decided?’ I sighed resignedly, believing it far better fitting for me invest my time and efforts into finding the comfiest chairs and sink - quite literally - into my plot in life as a sedentary human being.
It worked for a little while. I got to read a ton of books while my limbs grew soft and squishy. But as I get on in my years, it seems that all my physicians have secretly conspired to recommend physical fitness as a cure-all for all my ills.
“Not sleeping well?” my doctor tutted last year. “You should try working out more regularly.”
A few weeks ago, I visited an acupuncturist for some knee problems and she asked to examine my ears. (Did you know your ears were a window to your overall health? Neither did I!). She hmmed with disapprobation as she examined the whorls of my ear. “So…it seems like you’ve got poor circulation? Have you tried exercising? It helps, you know.”
I knew the universe was really trying to send me a sign when even my dentist - whose business is mainly with the inside of my mouth - felt the need to chime in about the benefits of physical fitness. “A short walk or run can do wonders for the whole body, including your gum health!”
Clearly, no one in the medical field was impressed by my lifelong goal to become a sofa sloth.
Lately, my mom's added her own voice to the pro-exercise chorus. Whenever we talk on the phone, she'll end her calls with a familiar-sounding reminder. "Remember to exercise! Your health is everything!"
So - about a month ago - decided a challenge for myself. One mile a day, thirty days straight.
It felt small and bite-sized enough that I won’t wake up dreading the time I spend on a treadmill. It also felt like prolonged enough that I might enjoy some semblance of progress, whatever that might look like - perhaps faster or easier runs, more toning or definition in my wobbly bits, or (at the very least) get good enough to run without my lungs feeling like they’re about to implode.
Day 1 was - as you might imagine - a riotous affair. While trying to cross my first mile finish line, I managed to drop my phone on the moving treadmill and unthinkingly stooped down to pick it up…to disastrous effect, of course. Allow me to gloss over the shame-filled details here.
That said, it’s amazing to see how far I’ve already come in just two weeks. I’m no longer gasping like a fish for air as I run. I have a playlist that distracts me well enough that I'm not glaring at the slow mile counter. And this morning, I caught myself actually looking forward to the run. What a difference a few days can make.
When I shared my small challenge over social media, I was floored by the support from two of the most unlikely groups of cheerleaders. The first group included the elite athletes in my circle - the triathletes, marathoners, track stars, and coaches. A few of them shared how their journey, too, had begun with such small steps, and they’ve flooded my inbox with tips, tricks, and encouragement.
My other support group is perhaps more beloved. They’re my kind of human beings - the bump-into-everything, sweat-despising, never-run-even-when-I’m-on-fire people. These friends were the loudest ones in my precious cheering squad, and I was especially overjoyed when a few said they’d like to join me.
So I’m leaving my template here in case you might find it helpful. If running is tough for whatever reason and you need to select another tiny wellness habit, please feel free to adapt it as you see fit.
Of course, let me know if you decide to take on your own 30-day challenge. I'd love to be part of your own cheerleading squad and root for you from afar!
