When Workouts Don't Really Work Out For Ya

Yeah so this working out thing ain't so fun sometimes. And while it may not be fun, working out can sometimes be funny. Disagree? Allow me to tell you a little tale that involves myself (well, duh), Allison, and Chelsea. Allison and Chelsea work in my office. Allison was a professional personal trainer just a few months ago. Chelsea has youth on her side in a big way.

The setting: The Stairs In Santa Monica. As in, that's what people call them 'round these parts. (and also on the Travel Channel whenever some chirpy travel host comes to L.A. to film a segment on "Top Ten Places to See in L.A.!")

The time: Workout Wednesday. As in, that's what Allison and I call the one day of the week when we get together to workout. (usually this entails Allison exercising some mad athletic skill while I exercise my right to walk like a grandma at the mall.)

So we arrive at The Stairs In Santa Monica around 6:30--in the evening. I haven't completely lost my mind to go and climb these stairs in the morning. Here's an image, so you can visualize what I am referring to when I say The Stairs In Santa Monica


Yeah, so see how there are mountains? And a valley? Well, The Stairs In Santa Monica literally scale the side of a cliff. There are actually two sets of stairs--a wooden set of stairs and a concrete set of stairs. The wooden set of stairs has 189 steps (of torture). The concrete set of stairs probably have the same amount of steps with an added bonus, the concrete steps are steeper.



Most people climb the stairs a couple of times and then hang around at the top of the stairs, posing as though they are being photographed for the cover of Shape Magazine. It's actually quite ridiculous and pretentious. People do push-ups on the sidewalk. Trainers say things like, "Oh the shaking in your legs is good. If you feel like you're going to pass out, just sit in the grass and drink some water." Girls do yoga...in the grassy median...in the middle of 4th Street.

Allison, being a former trainer and all, can climb the stairs a half-dozen times without much problem. Oh, and she runs a half block after she climbs all 189 steps. Chelsea, thinking this was normal behavior perhaps, did as Allison did. I, on the other hand, climbed the stairs ONCE and then went for a walk.

I walked past the asphalt push-up competitions, beyond a clump of people huffing and puffing as they posed along the guard rail trying to look like they weren't about to die, and around a pair of yummy mummies yacking it up about a sale at Fred Segal. I walked to the only thing I'll really miss about L.A. when I leave again--the curve of the coastline from the Pacific Palisades to Malibu. I imagine what each of the lights dotting the hillside represents: a woman from East L.A. tidying up a kitchen the size of her studio apartment, plush leather couches, shiny Audis parked in a row, a family eating pasta around a giant wooden table bought from a fancy shop on Melrose, lazy dogs taking in million-dollar views on back porches. Sometimes I imagine I am far away from this city, maybe in the tiny village of Deia off the coast of Spain or soaking up Italy's Amalfi Coast.

I think this view is the reason I work out at all.

After my walk down Adelaide Drive, I see Chelsea emerge from the canyon red-faced and panting after 5 climbs up the stairs. Her legs are shaking like Jell-o, so she decides she needs to "walk it off." I take her back down Adelaide, towards the ocean. The view is so stunning you can't help but forget about the fear of your heart literally pounding its way out of your chest. Soon Allison joins us. She has climbed the stairs 6 times, she thinks. So the three of us walk around this make-shift outdoor gym on the edge of a canyon.

Now, this being L.A. and people being people, you are watching other people while they watch you. Women size other women up and men, well who knows who these men are sizing up. As Allison, Chelsea and I were walking back in the direction of our car, I watched the faces of three guys posing in workout positions. (I say posing because these guys weren't sweating a drop, hadn't climbed the stairs once, and looked like they would be more comfortable in front of an Excel spreadsheet than they would be in front of a stack of dumbbells).

First they saw Allison, the trainer in cute green shorts. Eyes boggle. Then they see Chelsea, the college student with youth on her side. Eyes boggle again. Then they see me--the chaperone in old yoga pants.


The line between The Palisades and Malibu

A Weight Off My Shoulders.

Thanks to a hectic work schedule, a trip east and other commitments I made even though I hadn't the time, I have neglected my writing. In this absence of jotting down notes and stories, I have missed the revelations and feelings of purpose that find me when I write. So in the spirit of hopping back on the horse, I'm tackling a subject that I rarely speak of: weight. That is, my weight.

A few years ago I read an article about a very famous fashion designer who decided to lose quite a bit of weight a little later in life. I don't recall many details about the article (there might have been something about a ridiculous lettuce diet), but what I do recall is the sentiment this designer made about his decision to alter his lifestyle so drastically that every inch of his body was impacted. In short, he said that he desired to wear smaller clothes more than he desired eating sweets and lounging around. I'm totally paraphrasing here, but that was the idea that stuck with me.

It's been about 5 months since I found that same desire, and while my results have not been so drastic as to have been chronicled in a fashion magazine, my change has been noticed by coworkers, friends and family. And of course by me.

A strange mix of guilt and pleasure whirls through my mind each time I measure my progress by way of my reflection. I find a bit of joy in seeing my arms and legs advertise the results of my crawling around on the floor each morning to do exercises with names like, "the dying bug". And I feel victorious watching the pale marshmallow-like rolls of my stomach shrink. In all this, though, there is a sadness--maybe a mourning--for the chances I let pass me by because I was too self-conscious. For the embarrassment I felt because of my body. It's easy to just be yourself; it's much harder to actually love yourself. For this I am sad: that I haven't always loved myself.

In this process of change, I have noticed that I watch people differently than I did a year ago. Before, I looked enviously at women with smaller waists. Now I wonder what battles they fight with their own bodies. It's a curious thing to be a woman in LA, in America, in Western culture. You are celebrated for losing weight and whispered about for gaining weight.

So that is where I am now. I don't have a radical diet, and I don't go to the gym anymore. Instead I opt for water over soda, salad over bread, and I make it a point to get out and walk 4 or 5 times a week. I've also started minimizing time with friends who have been a drain on my mind and spirit. It's amazing how much better you feel when you don't have a Debbie Downer constantly moaning in your ear.

A funny post soon, I promise. But for now I hope this brings a wee bit of encouragement to someone somewhere.