I swore to myself that I wouldn't blog about exercising, but sometimes in the search for blog fodder the opportunity is too good to pass up. The worst part about being 48 is the shocking change in metabolism. Change might be an understatement. The screeching sound of breaks from my metabolism coming to a sudden and very definite stop could probably be heard on the other side of the world. At least that what it felt like. If my body's decline was to continue in the way it had for the past year, then when the little girls were, oh, say, 13, I was a little frightened and horrified that I would actually be fulfilling the 'elderly' label which appears in my medical file. Thus, in utter desperation, I have been hauling myself out of bed every morning to exercise. While I do feel better and it's helpful with my overall stress level, I don't enjoy it and it is sheer will-power (and the not insignificant desire to fit back into some of my clothes) that gets me out of the house.
So all of this is leading up to why I when I was at the store the other day I was standing in front of the hand weight section. Part of what I have been doing is walking with weights, which I thought were five pounds each. It was feeling pretty easy, so I decided to go up a couple of pounds to make it worthwhile. Eight pound weights seemed like a good choice. I did notice that the eight pound weights felt more than a little heavier than the weights I had, but you know how it is... when you are focusing on how much something weighs it can feel different than what it actually is. At least that's what I told myself.
The next morning I set out with my new weights. They felt heavier, but I was expecting to feel as though I was working a little harder. That's why I bought them after all. By the end of the first block, I was a little disappointed that such a small weight increase was proving to be so difficult. By the end of the second block, I was starting to have the sneaking suspicion that perhaps my original pair of weights weren't five pounds each as I had thought. Halfway through my walk I was trying to come up with ways to carry the weights so I could rest my hands a bit. I only thought briefly about putting them on the ground and pushing them along with my feet. I ruled that out pretty quickly since the ends are not round, but hexagons and so they wouldn't have rolled well.
After I staggered home and told my tale of woe, we took another look at the first set of weights. They are not five pounds, but two or three. Instead of going up three pounds for each weight, I more than doubled what I was carrying. At least I knew why I felt like dying while I was out walking.
This morning I took them out again. I would be thrilled if I could say that it went better, but that wouldn't be quite the truth. I almost made it to the end of the first block without feeling extreme muscle fatigue. My current relationship with the weights continues to be one where they should be glad I brought them home (however inelegantly I managed that) and didn't leave them lying by the sidewalk. The best I can say about them at the moment is that they're a pretty color.