Not Your Normal 80's Song

When the going gets tough, the tough get…EATING. Up until about a month ago, this would have been my motto. As many of you have already observed, it’s a bastardization of the age-old aphorism so many of us have heard growing up. Forget Billy Ocean. My grandfather, Daddy Doug, practically authored this proverbial nugget. He could be heard offering this sage advice in a variety of situations:

You don’t want to wake up?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

You don’t like your sales for the week?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

You have a tummy ache?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Your homework is just a little too hard?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Today, my Daddy Doug smiled down on me from Heaven and reminded me of this morsel of wisdom.

It all started when I arrived home from a field trip. The drive home was religious: the sun was smiling, trees were waving in the breeze, and humidity had hidden his ugly head. Having been in the presence of writers and environmentalists (on the field trip), I was feeling particularly one with the Earth. So—though I had my gym bag already loaded in my car—I chose to take a quick detour home to change there and take my dogs on a quick walk so that they could enjoy the day with me. My two dogs and I do a tango from the kitchen out to the yard, all dancing with the enjoyment of our reunion. I step outside and spot her…Our New Neighbor (whose name I’ve now forgotten because of the ensuing spectacle).

I spot her just as my dog is relishing in his massive bowel movement. Mid-poop, HE spots her and springs forth with the voracity of a mountain lion—and the velocity of a Mack truck. My sweet little 120-pound puppy morphs into a monster. Writhing his body into contortions that he believes will free him to go into attack mode, he pounces, prods, and roars in circular, psychedelic motions around our front yard. The neighbor looks on at the spectacle of Woman vs. Nature, as I struggle to appease him and avoid getting trampled. She reluctantly heads our way, and I attempt to introduce myself by saying, “Hi. Don’t come any closer…he’s still a puppy, so he’s a little afraid of strangers.” How’s that for a warm, neighborly welcome?

Thankfully, my husband and other neighbor, alerted by the barking, come out to help. When all is settled, I am able to offer my usual hospitable response and shake my new neighbor’s hand, welcoming her to the neighborhood. Just when I’m sure she’s second-guessing her purchase of a home on Cujo’s block, someone looks down and says, “Umm…I think he got your foot.” My head drops forward, and my eyes immediately go to the blood trickling down the side of my foot, pooling in my gold flip-flop. Indeed, in the struggle, his toenails—long overdue for a trimming—had scratched my skin. I offer a desperate giggle and side-smile, then I realize I’ve almost forgotten my appointment with my trainer. I excuse myself from the block party and head inside. I get cleaned up, put on a bandage, and rush out the door.

On my way to the gym, all I can think about is how mad I am that my dog can’t behave as gently with others as he does with us when we are alone. A wave of desperate devastation floods me, and I almost want to cancel my training appointment. Since I’m already almost there, I follow through and go in for my thirty minutes of bodily torture. My workout involved suicides (aptly named), shuffle relays, a tree and a resistance band, and the three most God-awful weight machines ever created: Benchpress, Row, and Pull-Ups. Until today, I’ve always been a little snarky towards people who grunt, squeal, and huff sounds like “WHOO” and “YEEEE” and “UUUUGH” and “AAAAA” when they lift weights…It always seemed just a little dramatic to me, like they wanted an Emmy for their exertion. I mean, how much can it really help to let everyone around you know that you are struggling to do that last rep? Today, I realized that those people don’t grunt to impress others. They do it because they are working damn hard.

I am sitting on one machine, and I have just completed my second set of repetitions. I’m lamenting the next two sets ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my trainer, Water Gallon Guy, attempt to sneak another five pounds on top of the weight that I already considered to be too hard. I don’t even say anything, because even my mouth is tired from working so hard. I know that I only have about a ten second break, and I begin struggling to summon my strength for the next set. I might cry. All of a sudden, Daddy Doug’s voice whispers in my head “When the going gets tough…the tough get going.” I grip the handles, and begin pulling back in a rowing motion. 12—I can do this. 11—Be tough. 10—Think of that damn dog. 9—This really hurts. 8—Water Gallon Guy just said my form is good. 7—Ouch. 6—Damn dog. 5—GRUUUUUUUUNT. 4—Oh My Gosh. I just grunted. 3—It feels kinda better when I do that. 2—UUUUUUGH. 1—AAAAAAAAK. I did it! I did the unthinkable third set. Elated, I muscle through the fourth set, grunting and bellowing the whole way. The going got tough. I got going.

Today, instead of quitting, instead of eating, instead of crying, I just got going. And it felt really amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I tried out another little ritual I think of when I think of body builders: I kissed my bicep. That didn't do it for me...but at least I've got the grunting. When the going gets tough, the tough get grunting.

If you'd like to get motivated, click the link to BILLY OCEAN. Do a few jumping jacks. Do some push ups. Grunt while you do them. You'll like it.

Da Stairs

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. My heart palpitations are nearly visible through my shirt. I feel my heartbeat from my chest all the way down to my stomach. I sit down in an attempt to recover my breath, which is now so heavy that people are glancing over to make sure I’m okay. When I sit down, I feel my blood throbbing through my body, in unison with my thumping heart. I consciously try to slow my breathing, inhaling and exhaling as deeply and as quietly as possible. You must be thinking, “WOW! What a workout!” Well, it was…but it was not my usual workout. I just took the stairs.

We’ve all read somewhere, in some health magazine, that people really should consider taking the stairs. Easy enough…or is it? Every Wednesday, I travel to UNF’s campus to attend my graduate class—which meets in the Library. Last week, per my usual routine, I headed straight for the elevator. I scurried in, pressed “2”, and turned to face one lone passenger. He was about eighteen years old with caramel skin and sun-bleached hair (a surfer, no doubt). Now that I’d observed him, I awkwardly squeaked out some small talk. With my normal blonde eloquence, I noticed aloud, “Fourth floor, huh?” Immediately, he grinned back and in a semi-stoner voice proclaimed, “Yeah, I figured I’d take the elevator…not like I’m going to the second floor or anything.” Burn. At that moment, I suppose he noticed that, in fact, I was going to the second floor. He quickly followed, “Not that I’m judging.” BING! The elevator opened, and I jumped out—eager to escape any more awkward conversation with this adolescent. I resolved to take the stairs at UNF’s library from then on.

Today, I arrive at the library hours before my class to complete a bit of research. I head towards the elevator, but then I remember last week’s resolution. I stop in the middle of the foyer…stairs on my left, elevator on my right. The guy at the circulation desk stares in a befuddled manner, since I’ve apparently lost where I was going. My outer fat body tempts me to consider that TODAY is not like normal—I am not just going to the second floor this time; I am embarking upon the FOURTH floor, the floor that even surfers use the elevator for. Within a minute, my inner thin woman took over and guided my legs towards the stairs. Up. Up. Up. Up. Up. Up. I get to the first landing, and I regret the choice to bring my laptop—since it makes my book bag about five pounds heavier. I could easily go back down, but then I would really look crazy. I climb the next set of steps to the second floor. I peer around at this floor. The elevator gleams and giggles, urging me to give up and take a ride for the next two floors.

I turn around, ignoring the elevator’s invitation, and bound up the next flight. I realize that the higher I go, the more I dislike the architect who designed these stairs. They are quite scary. I realize that I can see through them to the floor below me, which truly taunts my equilibrium. I decide to just look up and keep climbing.

Before I know it, I am on the last landing—looking up at the glorious fourth floor. At this point, I realize I am huffing and puffing so hard that one would think I not only took the stairs, but also sprinted from my car. Knowing the fourth floor is the “Quiet Zone” I decide to stop on this landing and commemorate my first climb up Mount Staircase. I grab my iPhone, snap a picture, and crawl my way up the last ten steps. Since I’m still panting from my excursion, I look for the first place to sit and gain my composure (i.e. my breath). I pull out my laptop, place my hands on the keyboard, and feel the blood still drumming through my veins. As I type my blog about this momentous occasion, I hear the elevator’s ding-dong. I look over to my right to see who gets off. As I watch a girl in her twenties emerge from the cavernous elevator, I don’t judge her. But I do feel slightly superior, since—after all—I took the stairs.