I’m pretty sure hell is made up of treadmills, weight machines and sadistic Phys Ed teachers.

I hate exercise.

And it’s NOT MY FAULT.

When I was a little kid (back in the day when children were allowed to play outside unsupervised) I was extremely active. Skipping (for fun!), riding my bike (to go places) and running (even when mortal danger was not on my tail) -  all day long. Not wanting to pause to eat or come in after dark. And not surprisingly, I was thin.

When did this change? Gym class. Around age 12. Puberty. The big separation of girls and boys. And an evil Phys Ed teacher who shall forever remain nameless.

Actually, screw that. Her name was Ms. Hominuik. (And if you’re reading this, Miiiizzzz Hominuik, fuck you and I hope you rot in hell I know you were doing the best you could and you really had our best interests at heart.)

Ms. H was short, muscular and mean-looking. She never smiled. I’d say “pitbull with lipstick” but she didn’t wear makeup.

Among the evil, nasty, torturous well-intentioned, but misguided things she did:

• using the most inept kid (that would be me) to demonstrate gymnastics moves *in front of the class* by physically manipulating my body, then declaring to everyone: “If *Patty* can do this, then all of YOU can.”
• grading based on “performance” instead of effort (she gave me 3/100 in gymnastics class – apparently being used as a demonstration dummy didn’t earn me any marks)
• not allowing “I have my period” as an excuse for missing class. OK, she may have had a point there (especially seems we girls tried that one every class a lot). But did she really have to announce “exercise is good for cramps” to the whole class (thus revealing to *everyone* that I happened to be on the rag that day)?

And I won’t even go into the whole  appointing the popular kids leaders to pick teams, resulting in arguments like this one:
Leader1: We don’t want her. You can have an “extra.”
Leader2: We had her last time, it’s your turn.
Ms H: You’re on team one.
Leader1: Aw…no fair.

OK…I guess I did go there. Well…I definitely won’t talk about the change room, because I already covered that subject.

Anyhow, gym class made me hate physical activity. All of a sudden we were timed. And graded. Being active was no longer about play and having fun. It was about how fast you could run a mile and a half. (In my case: not very.)

The moment I stepped out of PE for the last time, was the moment I declared my freedom.

For about 20 years, I very deliberately avoided exercise. Even a fleeting thought of being in a *gym* filled me with dread. It instantly brought back the horrid memories.

Once I got to my late 30s, I started to look at the health aspects of exercise (as opposed to the “weight control” aspects). My awareness led me to reconsider my exercise boycott.

So I embarked on a mission to overcome my junior high school trauma and find some form of exercise I could tolerate enjoy.

I signed up for a fitness and weight training class at a gym. And I hated it. I hated the environment. The intimidating machines, all the “fit” people looking at me. Not remembering exactly how to do the exercises. Feeling sore the next day. And the boredom. The only thing I liked about it was the feeling of “I did it” after I left the building. And that feeling turned out to be insufficient motivation for me to continue.

Next, I signed up for a 10K “learn to run” program. I was disappointed because, even though I didn’t mind the running too much:
a. I hurt my knee.
b. I never experienced the much advertised “runner’s high”

(In my experience, the whole idea of “getting high” from exercise is a myth. Unless you count a post-workout beer or three. Or if by exercise, you mean bicep curls using a glass of Jack as the weight. Sure…I can do another set of reps…and hey, let’s up the weight this time – make it a double. Ooo…feel the burn…)

When I hit 40, I decided to give myself the gift of allowing myself to be bad at something. Just for kicks. And to push my comfort zone. I opened up the Activity Guide for my nearest Rec Centre and found 2 ideal candidates: Yoga and Bellydance.

Score! These were things I *knew* I would suck at. Without a doubt. I was laughing at myself before I even signed up.

To my great astonishment, I discovered that I *liked* yoga. And not just because it gave me some of the best stand up comedy material *ever* – but because the mindfulness requirement actually worked to stop my brain. I had to focus so hard on what I was trying to do that I had no mental capacity left to feel self-conscious and fret about how I was doing everything wrong.

And then…knock me over with a feather…I learned that I liked bellydance. Even more than yoga.

I understood the yoga-liking thing. It’s slow and deliberate. It’s not competitive. And what’s not to love about a sport where “lying down” is officially part of the practice. They even give it a cool name so you get bragging rights:

How was yoga?
Great. Only my first class and I already totally rock at Savasana.

(Note to Yoga teachers: you could really play this up in the advertising.)

But bellydance? That presses the awkward “I have no rhythm, I can’t dance” button AND the “body image” button.

There are so many things about bellydance that would be so easy for me to hate. Complicated moves that require all my concentration to do badly. The mirrored wall, where I can watch myself screw up (and compare myself and my body to the other participants – many of whom are 20 years younger). And let’s not forget “shimmying” which is just a sexy sounding word for jiggling your fat.

It’s also physically taxing. I get tired and sweaty (2 things I don’t like).

And yet…on Monday, I spent about 3 hours researching how to take the bus to get to class (maps, directions, schedules, bus numbers…the whole thing gives me a headache).

I had to leave a full hour before class began. And I’d have to wait almost an hour after class for the bus home. And despite my research, I *still* managed to get off at the wrong stop, become confused about where I was and panic for a moment before figuring out where the school was and walking the rest of the way.

After all that…the minute I arrived, kicked off my shoes and sat down on the floor…I was already thinking: “this is SO worth it.”

HUH? Part of me is saying: “Who IS this woman?”

Even though it’s inconvenient, even though I suck at it. (And I suck even more because I haven’t been to class for 2 years.) Even though it officially counts as “exercise” (ugh). I’m excited to be there.

I had to wonder…why?

It has the same mindful qualities that I experience in yoga. I can’t think and do bellydance at the same time.

Candace, our instructor, is awesome. About as far from Ms H as you can get. She’s beautiful and talented. And she’s a good teacher; she explains things well and she’s patient. She reminds us that it’s OK to do things our own way, at our own speed and for us not to get hung up on perfection.

The practice of bellydance (at least as Candace teaches it) is about body awareness and acceptance. There’s a mix of ages and body sizes and abilities in the class. Just last night, she reminded us of that…that bellydance is for *every body*

It’s a safe environment. A place where we are encouraged to “just let it all hang out, relax our muscles, let our bellies stick out.” (And Candace is quick to chase away any looky-loos who try to peer around the drapes that enclose the dance studio.)

There’s funky music. And jingly coin scarves.

It’s fun.

And weirdly enough, bellydance inspires me to want to push a bit and find out what my body is capable of. I get curious about what I might be able to do if I keep up the practice for 2 or 3 or 7 years. As opposed to: I wonder how long it would take for me to get as good as Candace? (Or more likely: I can never be that good, so why even bother?)

Patricia Fripp said something at Lady and the Champs (speakers’ conference) that really struck me. “It will take YEARS to become a really accomplished speaker. It’s not something you can expect to happen overnight. If you don’t enjoy the PROCESS – the practice, the feedback, the learning – you might as well do something else.”

I instantly grokked that idea in terms of my speaking career.

Last night, I made the same connection to bellydance.

I enjoy the PROCESS. The learning, the practicing…even the “being bad at it.” Any end result is secondary.

And that’s what was missing from the other exercise classes. Going to the gym or running was simply a means to an end: if I do this hateful thing 3 times a week, I’ll eventually become fit.

But I hated the process. I had to overcome the feeling of “yuck” and “I don’t wanna” every time. That and the heavy realization that “even if I reach my weight and fitness goals…in order to *keep* those results, I’ll have to continue doing it for the rest of my life.”

And that thought was tiring, not inspiring.

The older I get, the more I recognize the wisdom of my “inner child” (and the more I realize that “being a grown up” is completely over-rated). Bellydance is fun. It’s play. And there’s one thing I can be certain of…

Ms. H would not be caught dead there.

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Tagged as: acceptance, awareness, crap I learned as a child, habits, silliness