Some people have hot girl summers. I apparently get heart attack summers.
Ever since politely declining an invitation back in June from a hooded gentleman with a scythe, I've spent a good portion of the last three months climbing aboard a delightful array of assorted treadmills and elliptical machines in order to teach my blood how to once again flow throughout my body unencumbered. It's been a swell time.
Truth be told, I haven't altogether hated it. Honestly, it's occasionally been kinda (gasp) fun. I've lost a decent amount of weight, I've gained a ton of stamina, and I've met some really great people. Not once has anyone pointed and called me names, so cardiac rehab has already proven itself to be a MILLION times more valuable than junior high gym class ever was.
But all good things come to an end, and I've only got a few remaining sessions before I graduate rehab, receive my complimentary t-shirt, and get shown the door. From there, staying on the healthy path will be entirely up to me. Gulp.
I'm in it for the long haul, though. I've done the hard part. I've turned that new leaf. I deleted the pizza delivery numbers off my phone. This is the longest I've gone without a cheeseburger in my adult life. I've got a long road ahead of me to get back in fighting form, but I'm already a few miles farther down that highway than I ever thought I'd get.
And this week, I did something I never thought would happen. Shane Brown, of his own free will and volition, joined the YMCA.
The me of two decades ago would've hung his mouth open in utter shock upon hearing such nonsense. WILLINGLY entering a building where people PURPOSELY sweat and work out without a sectional sofa or flatscreen TV in sight? Say it ain't so.
But listen, I've done my research -- and I have it on pretty good authority they have everything for a man to enjoy, I can hang out with all the boys, and it's fun to stay at the YMCA. Honestly, if you can't trust a cop, a construction worker, a soldier, an Indian, a cowboy, and a biker, who CAN you trust?
I've been to the YMCA a handful of times now, and I've already noticed a few things.
At cardiac rehab, I sometimes feel like an athlete. It's easy to have confidence when you're surrounded by exercise professionals who know what they're doing and your heart rhythm is being monitored by attentive nurses in real time. Each week, I've been adding a little more resistance and speed to hopefully improve my performance and capability. It's almost like I'm becoming a real jock or something.
And then I went to the YMCA and had a bit of a reality check. I'm definitely no jock. Over the past few sessions at rehab, I've been quite proud of myself for trying their stand-up elliptical machine. Ten minutes on that baby and I'm an exhausted, flabby pile of ick trying hard not to barf. Well, the YMCA has a bunch of those machines, too. And the first time I was there, I watched a dude log 60 minutes on one of those things while chatting on his phone and barely breaking a sweat. Last time I was there, I thought I was walking a decent pace on the treadmill until two girls got on either side of me and starting running at more than double my speed. I am many things, but a "real jock" is NOT one of them.
Still, no-one laughed at me, and I've yet to flee in terror. I've been hitting the YMCA after work on my off days from rehab. I signed up for their fancy e-Gym, where the machines act as your own personal trainers and automatically adjust weights and resistance to meet your exact needs. Today, one of those machines told me I currently have the upper body muscle strength of an 83-year-old, so thaaaat's awesomesauce. I tried to see if I can do more than ten minutes on THEIR stand-up ellipiticals -- and I cannot (yet.) Their treadmills are high-tech and have screens where you can pretend you're walking along a beach in Europe or through the mountains of Argentina. Today, it randomly chose a casual stroll down the Sunset Strip. I was hoping to bump into Axl or Slash along the way, but no dice.
So here's to this good thing not coming to an end anytime soon, and here's to getting that Village People song out of my head as soon as possible. Don't worry, once I become a buff and toned jock with abs of steel, I won't point, laugh, or kick sand in your face as I walk past you on the beach with a hot babe on each arm. Promise.
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