Once upon a time, I was quite sporty.Athletic, even.
And now, after a 30-minute workout video, I can hardly move.
Sitting down was hard today.
Getting up was even worse.
Muscles I didn't even know I had hurt.
My hair may even be sore.
I hate you, Jillian Michaels.
It almost hurts to type.
With summer on its way, I know cognitively I should be exercising to rid my body of the layer of fat (layers?) that have accumulated through the last six months (nine?).
But I just have to be honest.
I HATE working out.
Does that make you cringe? Feel pity for my aging body? Think of me differently?
Yes, there were these days when I exercised religiously every day for 3 hours to achieve near-State-champion greatness:
I'm #30, the one usually in the back with a grosgrain ribbon-tied ponytail, for those of you that weren't there to witness the madness that was the Lady Blue Devils.
For you, especially, I will tell you that the days of my high school basketball career were some of the best. I walked on to a team, as a very tall, quite skinny freshman, that was bad. Really bad. Something like 2-12 bad. I have no idea how bad exactly, but bad.
I know what you're thinking. It was GIRLS BASKETBALL. Of course it was bad.
You'd be wrong.
I was 6' tall and lanky. "Weak as water," as my coach would say, replete with his southern twang and tweedy jacket. But, he saw promise. Potential. I proceeded to start as a freshman, and then every game thereafter. Eventually I would go on to be quite a defensive player with a good run at the region's record for most blocks. I never was strong, but I was a team player and a Merit Player for my good attitude, stamina and ability to, well, block their team of shorties.
The best part, at the beginning, was the varsity gear. The slicky track suits that we got to wear on game day, embarrassingly modeled below.
The separate outfits that we got to wear while warming up, pre-game, to the tunes of "Whoomp There it Is" and the like.
I could have been happy just with that. But, then there was the camaraderie. The joy of being on a team. The thrill of winning, and decorating our coach's front lawn with toilet paper and spirited signage. The dance parties (with our coach and his fabulous comb-over-do and effervescent cologne) in our tiny, yet colorful locker room, exhibited below, with our regional championship trophy.
And winning like mad.
We went from 2-12 or whatever to winning the subregions my junior year. And then winning the regions that same year. And then going on to have a record-breaking senior year. Selling out the gymnasium, bringing in even more fans than the boys team, who "supposedly" were the headliners after our games, but who didn't draw half the crowd we did.
We went all over the state of Georgia, knocking down opponents in all corners of the AAAA division. We had fun. We won games. Kids got scholarships. And we all were toned, in shape and fast.
Aaaaaannnnnndddd.
Then time caught up with us.
And now, here I am, 15 years later, hurting after one stupid 30-minute workout video showed me who's boss.
Needless to say, I miss the days when a 3-hour practice was routine, running suicides was just an appetizer before the team pasta dinner, a bus ride meant you were on to something great, and each Friday meant you were a star member of the winning team and cheerleaders decorated your locker and brought you cookie cakes that said things like, "Kick Cass" to rile you up for that night's game.
We had a good run. We learned the meaning of teamwork. We went the distance together. We achieved greatness, going something like 13-1. Lost a crucial one in the last seconds of the overtime buzzer, but we had the crowd on our side. Ended up #8 in the entire state of Georgia, in a very competitive division of girls' high school basketball.
And today I'll drink a toast to that.
From my sofa, in the fetal position.
Damn you Jillian Michaels.
If only you said things like Coach Teague used to say, in his thick and loud southern twang, "Y'all don't know whether to wind your butt or scratch your watch" or "You couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat" or "You girls make chickens with their heads cut off look organized," at least I would feel at home. I would understand that the pain was all worth it.
Even if I didn't know what half those phrases meant.
Posts
