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.
But despite all my complaining, something interesting happened.
I got stronger.
Not overnight.
Not dramatically.
But little by little.
The weights that once felt impossible started feeling manageable.
Then they started feeling easy.
Which is unfortunate because it means I have to increase them again.
One of the unexpected benefits of gym life is people-watching.
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—and strangely motivating—gym moments I’ve ever experienced.
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.
