So, we’ve added a new component to our workout routine: lifting. Yes, I do mean weights, and they’re bloody heavy. Brian lifted in college, so thanks to his experience I knew what I was getting into when we started this last week, namely pain, fatigue, callouses, and pain (great galloping gonads, the pain). What surprised me was the awesomeness. Picking up those big-ass weights feels GOOD, and every time I move them, I feel stronger. In fact, I feel amazing.
Yeah, it seems silly to feel so much stronger after only a week. I feel like a starter character who just hit Level 2 in an adventure game. Bear with me here, this makes sense in a seriously dorky way. The good games always make you feel powerful when you start out because being powerful is fun, therefore you’ll play longer. Beginning lifting is similar. You start small, but you make such progress from session to session that you feel magnificently heroic.
Since we started this routine, I’m happier because I stopped feeling like the dumpy broad I am and started feeling like a total boss. (Part of that is because dumpy is now temporary and part of it is because weights make you rawr.) Brian is happier because we’re now using the whole gym, rather than just the cardio machines. I suspect part of him disliked that because you can get cardio outside for free, but he knows I like going to the gym for it. The gym is inside, and thus keeps me safe from scary bugs and people who text while driving. Win/win.
That said, you’re probably wondering why I decided to start lifting weights at the ripe old age of 41. There are two reasons: (1) a bunch of sciencey things having to do with fat loss and body composition, and (2) strength. Both reasons are important, but the second is more so. Strength has always been a priority to me, especially mental. My brain has grown stronger every year, and it finally occurred to me that my bod really needs to start keeping up. Last time I checked, they haven’t invented the Head Jars from Futurama yet.