I'd done a Zumba class (fun) and was convincing myself to add 20 minutes in the weight room (not fun). I had lots of excuses - I was tired. I had a lot to do. I'd done Zumba, for heaven sake. Enough is enough!
For whatever reason, I lost the argument . . . or won, depending on how you look at it. I committed to showing up at the weight room, ready to heft barbells, do a few miserable squats, and attempt a 30-second plank. I wouldn't enjoy it, because strength training isn't my thing. But I'd made a goal, so I'd go for it.
I walked in and headed to the rack of silvery weights. Then I noticed a guy working out with his trainer. The trainer was throwing a ball at him, and he was catching it with his abdomen. Sweat dripped down his face, and he lunged at that ball. No half-hearted efforts.
And did I mention he had no arms or legs?
I was immediately chagrined and humbled. How dare I whine when this man had gone through tremendous efforts just to get to the gym, let alone work out? I watched him out of the corner of my eye, with awe and admiration.
Then I picked up those weights. Heavier ones than usual.
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