Spoiler alert: In case you missed last week's column, I had a heart attack. I'll give you a few seconds to gasp in shock. Done? Okay, good.
One of the fun perks of undergoing such an ordeal is that I'm now enrolled in cardiac rehab. It's a 12-week program designed to get your heart back in shape and teach you the necessary lifestyle changes to hopefully avoid repeating all this nonsense. It's essentially an hour of monitored exercise followed by education and nutrition classes. Well, except for me. It turns out my insurance won't cover the nutrition and education part of the extravaganza, because I guess it's easier to carry around all those blue crosses and blue shields if you're fat and stupid. So for me, cardiac rehab is essentially a 12-week deluxe gym membership.
Me and gyms have never gotten along well. I'm pretty sure every occurrence of anxiety, doubt, and self-loathing I've ever had in my life can be firmly traced back to middle-school gym class. I was the kid who was always picked last. The kid who always struck out. The kid who couldn't climb the rope in the Presidential fitness test (as if Donald Trump could've done any better.) Gym class was a non-stop nightmare of embarassment and ridicule that scarred me forever, so I've never been in a big hurry to return to that arena.
Even as an adult, I've been reticent to join a gym. I have little to no clue how any of these cardio machines work, and I don't wanna be the embarassing chubster asking some roid-rage dude how to work an exercise bike. I realize adults don't ALWAYS act like 10 year olds, but I still fear everyone pointing and laughing at the fat idiot. Couches might not keep you in shape, but they generally keep you safe -- well, until your arteries clog up from eating like a moron and being the posterboy for a sedentary lifestyle. So now I guess I'm a gym rat whether I like it or not. Thankfully, the staff at cardio rehab are more supportive than intimidating.
We have to keep a little weekly journal of our rehab progress. There's a line we had to fill out at the beginning that says, "What is your goal of this program?" I wrote, "To get all buff and super-sexy (and hopefully not die.)" I stand by my response.
Day one was a little scary. They took my blood pressure when I walked in the door and noted it was high. "Nah," I told them, "that's my nerves. Take it at the end of class and you'll see." They did. They saw. Stress and fear alone raised my b.p. some twenty points. It turned out, though, that I had nothing to stress over. Working out is kinda simple. And kinda fun.
The rehab program has a staff of nurses and exercise gurus that oversee and lend a hand when needed. On my first day, my guy Lance had me on a variety of different fitness machines, and none seemed especially taxing. "I barely feel like I'm exercising," I told him. "It's a starting point," he replied. "And I bet you'll feel it in the morning." The next morning, I woke up... and did NOT feel it. My muscles weren't aching and I didn't feel worn out.
This could only mean one thing: I guess I'm a stud. I thought I was out of shape, but clearly I must be super ripped somewhere under all this fat. I just handled a full hour of exercise and barely broke a sweat. Wait, am I a... a jock?
Actually, it turned out all of the machines were set on absolutely zero resistance, so I was doing little more than just stretching some muscles that day. In the days since, I've been gradually adding resistance to actually get some work into my workout. Based on how wrecked my muscles felt this morning, I might actually be accomplishing something. One of the machines is this silly little contraption that works your arms while you sit pedaling with your hands against a moderate amount of resistance. The first two minutes were fun, but by the time I hit ten minutes, my arms were shaking, my teeth were clenched, and I'm pretty sure my sweat was sweating.
I've been there four times, so I'm clearly now an exercise expert. I've already been offering my unsolicited advice on how to better the program. If there's one thing this gym desperately needs, it's an in-house DJ. Every day, they stick on a radio that plays the same Journey and Bon Jovi songs that have been ingrained in our heads for decades. But here's what I noticed. Whenever a song came on with a tempo between 90-100 beats per minute, I found myself naturally exercising in rhythm to the beat. But when a song came on with a higher tempo that I couldn't match, I would instinctively slow down to about 80 reps per minute without a song to keep pace to. If you were to make a non-stop music mix of classic tunes that stuck in that 90-100 bpm range, I think everyone in that class would maintain a steadier pace.
I mentioned it to a nurse and she said she'd be willing to try it sometime. I bet she thinks I won't make that mix. She doesn't know me well. By the end of my run at this place, I'm giving them a mix. I just can't make it TOO cool. Don't wanna run into any nasty scenarios where my vast fanbase starts binge-eating lard in hopes of giving themselves heart attacks to get through the door. Trust me, this might be one of the most exclusive clubs in town, but you probably shouldn't try to be a member.
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