I considered this mathematical truth at 6:15am today as the younger cat, Mimi, determined that the fastest way to get to the other side of the bed was to stroll across my back. She needed to get to that side, see, because I was facing that way and she needed to look me in the face to find out if I was awake.
Protip: Don't open your eyes.
This truth struck me again, albeit in a less feline way, as I headed for the gym tonight. It was a training night and it was going to be legs again, I just knew it. Legs. The last time we did legs, I limped for five days, the first two of which were so bad I needed assistance to slither up to my third-floor apartment.
I'm not too proud to admit that I crawled. In public.
By the time my trainer smiled that It's too late to run now... smile and said, "Legs tonight, right?" part of me was I was wishing I'd stayed home.
I suppose I could have lied, said something about how it was definitely an arms day.
But that's not the shortest distance. And me, I need the shortest distance. Every minute of every day.
I've spent more than half my life as an overweight person. Nearly ten years ago I tipped into "obese" territory for the first time and I swore I wouldn't let it define me. But no matter how many times I looked at that scale and said "I won't be this person anymore," it never worked. I never took the shortest path.
Let me tell you something: The long route looks great. It looks like a land of rainbows and unicorns, where all you need to do is wish hard enough and you'll lose weight. Cut out a snack here, climb some stairs there, and before you know it you're wearing booty shorts and bringing all the boys to the yard. Some people tell you this works, that their aunt's second cousin's friend's dogwalker did it and now she's running the New York City Marathon.
The truth is that it isn't real. The long route might be a first step, but it's a first step I've taken hundreds of times in my life. It's just as heartbreaking to lose your will on the first step as it is on the tenth step. And I just won't do it anymore.
So tonight, I looked J in the eye and said "Yep, it's legs tonight. What's first?"
I whimpered on my last set of stability ball wall squats. I cried out "Cramp!" in a crowded gym when my right hamstring tried to give up. I was sick with apprehension when asked to do lateral moves that I just knew would hurt my knee, and I'm pretty sure I said "I'm terrified, J" at least three times.
But you know what? I did it. Every last damned rep of every last damned set. (Trust your trainer; it didn't hurt my knee. Not one bit.)
As I laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling after my last set of crunches, I thought about how much the shortest path hurts. In order to push yourself to be something better, you need to first admit that you need to be better. No hamstring cramp in the world hurts as much as that sort of introspection. And when you challenge yourself to take the shortest path, to put it all on the line and really go for it for the first time in your life, it's scary. And exhilarating.
It's the only way.
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