Let me start by saying something that apparently isn’t allowed in the fitness world: I don’t like going to the gym.
There. I said it.
Every fitness influencer on Instagram seems to wake up at 4:00 a.m., drink something green, and sprint joyfully toward a workout while inspirational music plays in the background. Meanwhile, my morning routine consists of negotiating with myself like a hostage negotiator.
“You don’t have to enjoy it. You just have to show up.”
If I’m being completely honest, I would love to tell you I started working out because I wanted to improve my mobility, maintain muscle mass, and protect my health as I age. That sounds very mature.
The truth? Vanity. Pure vanity.
I looked in the mirror one day and thought, “Well, that’s not the direction I was hoping things would go.” And just like that, my fitness journey began.
Now before anyone gets excited, let’s clarify something. I don’t enjoy the workout. I don’t enjoy driving to the gym. I don’t enjoy seeing other humans who appear to be enjoying the gym. I especially don’t enjoy the hip thrust machine. Who invented that thing? And why does it always feel like the machine is judging me personally?
Unfortunately, it’s also one of the exercises I probably need the most. The universe has a cruel sense of humor.
Working out is also more complicated when you’ve already had two knee replacements and know a third one is probably somewhere in your future. At this point, my joints have more replacement parts than some used cars.
That comes with limits I’ve had to accept. I can’t lift as heavy as I used to. I can’t go as deep into a squat or a lateral lunge. Step ups and Bulgarian squats are supposed to be great for glutes, and they are, but they’re also brutal on my knees, so I skip them and find other ways to get there.
But despite all my complaining, something interesting happened. I got stronger. Not overnight. Not dramatically. But little by little, I’ve increased how much I lift across the board. What hasn’t budged is the dread. I still hate the hip thrust machine with my whole chest. I still don’t look forward to leg day. It’s a necessary evil now. If I want to still be moving in my 80s the way I want to, leg day isn’t optional anymore.
One of the unexpected benefits of gym life is watching other people. Recently, my friend and I were walking on the treadmills when a woman nearby was running. Every time she slowed from a run to a walk, she let out a series of sounds that instantly transported me back to that famous diner scene in When Harry Met Sally, where Meg Ryan enthusiastically fakes an orgasm while Billy Crystal watches in stunned silence.
My friend and I looked at each other. Without missing a beat, one of us whispered, “We need to find out what exercise she’s doing.”
We laughed so hard we nearly forgot we were supposed to be exercising. It remains one of the most memorable gym moments I’ve had, and one of the strangest ways I’ve ever been motivated to keep going.
What keeps me coming back on the days I really don’t want to go isn’t willpower. It’s what happens when I stop. Take a week or two off and my knees start complaining, especially the one with the replacement in it. My body starts craving the exact activity it usually resents. That knee has to keep moving now, whether I feel like it or not.
These days, I still don’t love the gym. I doubt I ever will. But I’ve come to appreciate what it gives me. Strength. Confidence. The ability to carry all the grocery bags into the house in one trip. And at this age, that’s basically an Olympic sport.
As my personal Housewives tagline would say: “I don’t work out because I enjoy it. I work out because menopause chose violence.”
And honestly? That’s reason enough.
