What Happens When A Couch Potato Drags Her Butt Off the Couch?

Exercise has pretty much been proven to be the Answer to Everything. Doctors, scientists, magazines, moms, Oprah, and overweight people on reality television are constantly telling us that physical activity (at least 30 minutes, 5 days a week!) will solve, or at least lessen the weight of, all of our problems.
   Feeling sluggish and indifferent about life in general? Do some yoga, they say. Feeling crushed after a particularly bad breakup? (You know the kind I'm talking about. The kind where your apartment starts to stink because you haven't taken out the trash in a week because all you've been doing is calling in sick to work and watching way too many Meg Ryan movies because you're convinced the loser who dumped you will meet you at the top of the Space Needle for a reconciliation kiss at the end of the movie. Oh, wait. This isn't a movie. It's real life. Back to the part about exercise.)
  Hit the local trail and start jogging. Simply feeling like a fat tub of lard? Get off your butt and walk around the block. (The actual block, not just down your driveway to grab the newspaper and head back inside for more beer and Sunday football.) This is the advice we're constantly bombarded with. Exercise! Get your blood pumping! Now!
 Some of us follow this advice, some of us don't, and some of us only pretend to follow it by convincing ourselves that walking to our apartment mailbox with our dog is the same thing as taking our dog for a walk. I fall into this category. It is finally time for me to admit my shameful secret: I hate exercising. Exercising reminds me of the good old days in P.E. (confession: they were not really the good old days. They were dark days, very dark days indeed) when my over-zealous P.E. teacher made us learn a synchronized dance to the theme song from "Men In Black".
  To this day, when I hear the word "exercise" my mind immediately hears Ms. Franco's voice shouting "Ok kids! It's time to EXERCISE!" and the first lines of the "Men In Black" theme worm their way into my brain, now matter how desperately I try to push them out. "Here come the men in black/galaxy defenders...". I even remember the Will Smith rap.
  So, as you have probably gathered, I've lived my life thus far quite opposed to the notion of exercising. Now, don't get me wrong, I do not hail from a family of couch potatoes. Quite the opposite, in fact. My mother wakes up at 5 am every morning to get in her daily 30 minutes of physical activity. She jogs and bikes frequently with friends. My father is a yoga devotee, and I've also seen him lifting a kettle bell in the backyard more times than I can count. My parents will often work out together, saying they are going to "hit the trail".
 It's at times like these when I feel the most cowardly, hiding behind my Archie comic book at breakfast and muttering a vague "No thanks" when they appear, beaming (how can anyone be beaming in the morning?), dressed in chic workout gear and asking me if I want to "hit the trail" with them. Surprise, surprise, my answer is always a pathetic "no". My well-worn and extremely tired excuse? "I don't have time to exercise". I am a seasoned veteran at crafting excuses as to why I don't have time to exercise. There is never a shred of truth to any of them.
   Now that I have been diagnosed with Social Anxiety Disorder, however, my comfortable sloth-like existence is being severely threatened. After discussions with my doctor, mom (the woman is a fitness guru), and several Google research trips, the truth is starting to hit me. I might actually have to start exercising. Regularly. The thought is absolutely disheartening.
  How does exercise help depression and anxiety? According to mayoclinic.com it can "release feel-good brain chemicals such as neurotransmitters and endorphins that may ease depression, reduce immune system chemicals that can worsen depression, increase body temperatures,which may have a calming effect, provide a distraction from negative thoughts that can feed anxiety and depression, give you the chance to meet new people, and provide you with a healthy way to cope with stress and anger."
 Apparently, exercise, and lots of it, is exactly what I, and the other 19 million Americans who suffer from an anxiety disorder, need. Maybe it won't be that bad. That part about neurotransmitters sounded kind of cool. Let's fast forward to a few days after I realized that, in order to become more like the Normal People, I need to start getting my butt off the couch and onto a treadmill.
  Luckily for me my apartment building has a free gym. (Actually, when I realized this, I cursed inwardly. At least one excuse was out the window.) I had debated for several days (in truth I wasn't debating, I was stalling) deciding what type of exercise I wanted to do. I had ruled out anything involving The Great Outdoors. The Great Outdoors meant bugs, severe heat, more bugs, and people with extremely tanned and toned abs jogging past me as I huffed and puffed. I am neither tan, nor do I have extremely toned abs, so I felt like I would be intruding on their exclusive Tanned and Toned Ab Club. I had also ruled out anything involving my beloved dog, Clapton. (Clapton's been having some health problems, so at least this one was a legitimate excuse.)
  Nor did I want to dance around to corny workout videos in my apartment. That would mean a lot of banging into the furniture, and my furniture is pretty expensive. (See how many excuses I can come up with? I told you I was a seasoned vet.) My dear father had suggested yoga classes, but I ruled that out too, for now, because I have no desire to be in a sweaty room with a bunch of sweaty people I don't know. That left one more option: the apartment gym.
  The night before my First Official Workout I did a secret scoping mission. I thought I'd be sneaky and slip into the gym at night to check it out. Are you aware that most of the Normal People work out at night? As I entered the gym, several people in chic workout gear stared at me while pounding the treadmill. I suppose I looked rather out of place in my pajamas. Scurrying shame-facedly out of the gym, I began to worry incessantly. (I have an anxiety disorder remember? I do a lot of worrying.)
  The reasons behind my worrying? 1. I had no chic workout gear. Apparently that was a requirement in the gym. 2. The exercise machines all looked extremely complicated. How on earth was I going to operate one of those? I'd planned on effortlessly stepping onto the treadmill like a natural. 3. I had no ipod. How was I going to have any motivation at all to keep exercising if I couldn't listen to music? These were all very legitimate reasons to worry in my opinion.
  The next day I stalled like you woudn't believe. I am an expert at stalling and procrastinating. I practically have a masters degree in it. Excuses flew back and forth in my brain. "I'll look stupid!" "I haven't waxed my legs!" "I have to run errands!" (That was a particularly lame excuse. I never run errands.) However, quite surprisingly, I managed to maintain a steely resolve. I am very determined to overcome my severe anxiety and panic attacks, and I knew deep inside that exercising would help.
  So what did your reigning Princess of Panic do? I got dressed in decidedly un-chic workout gear (Lady Gaga concert t-shirt, pink shorts that I've had since 7th grade, yes, 7th, and my Nikes that don't fit anymore and that've been lying around my closet since the days of King Arthur), grabbed a water bottle, said goodbye to my cat and dog, and lugged my cd player, complete with Lady Gaga's first album, all the way down to that infernal gym.
  Two people were pounding the treadmills and jamming out silently to ipods. One was an extremely buff gentleman covered in tattoos and the other was a blonde girl who was probably an SMU cheerleader. I looked more than a little out of place. I cautiously plugged in my cd player and pressed play. Lady Gaga started telling me to "Just Dance". I glanced nervously at Tattoo Guy and Blonde Girl, but they didn't seem to notice me, or Gaga. Whew.
  I edged over nervously to a machine that I've now discovered is called an elliptical. I stepped gingerly on the pedals, and they immediately started moving. Fast. Yikes! I was freaking out. I had no idea if I was working this machine right. Tattoo Guy and Blonde Girl were still ignoring me. I decided to act natural. Four songs into the Gaga album, I was drenched in sweat, my heart was pounding and my butt was aching. Had I exercised long enough? I desperately wanted to stop, but I didn't want Tattoo Guy or Blondie to think I was a wuss.
  Blonde Girl took off her headphones and finally left the room. She wasn't even sweaty! Outrageous! I didn't even want to think about what kind of a hot mess I probably looked like. (Did I mention I was wearing my glasses and they kept sliding down my nose? Tip: don't wear glasses while exercising.) I was pleased to see that Tattoo Guy was drenched in sweat, however. At we seemed to be in the same boat.
  Finally, on about track nine of the Gaga album, Tattoo Guy left the gym. He immediately jumped into the pool. (I caught a glimpse of his chiseled abs and determined he definitely deserved a membership in the Tanned and Toned Ab Club.) WHEW. I abandoned my elliptical and collapsed onto a bench, Gaga still shouting. I was positively swimming in sweat. Yucky. However, I felt surprisingly...good. I felt proud of myself for actually dragging my butt down here in my un-chic workout gear. My heart was pumping in a good way. Maybe there was something to this whole exercising thing after all? I'll keep you posted. Yours, Princess of Panic