Exercise They Say: Sweat, Regret, and Questionable Life Choices

 

The (Ill-Fated) Decision to Exercise

I have always had a complicated relationship with exercise. And by “complicated,” I mean nonexistent.

It’s not that I didn’t understand the benefits of movement. I knew exercise was supposed to be good for the heart, the body, the soul, blah blah blah. But let’s be honest, if sweating was so wonderful, why does it feel like a punishment?

Still, after surviving The Great Pharmacy Quest (and my near-death experience with a toddler in a doctor’s office), I figured it was time to take this whole health thing seriously.

The problem? My body wasn’t exactly on board.

I wasn’t some fresh-faced 22-year-old bouncing into the gym with boundless energy. No, I was 58 years old, creaky, and possessed the flexibility of an overcooked lasagna noodle.

And worst of all? I. Hate. Sweating.

I’m sorry, but the moment moisture starts dripping down my back, my soul leaves my body. My ancestors did not survive plagues, wars, and the invention of Crocs just for me to voluntarily sweat on a treadmill.

But I had committed to this journey, and there I was, standing in my living room, wearing brand-new workout clothes that I had zero intention of ruining with actual movement. I figured I’d start small—nothing crazy.

A 10-minute low-impact beginner workout on YouTube.

Sounds easy, right?

The Workout Begins (and Immediately Goes Wrong)

The instructor on my screen was suspiciously enthusiastic for a person who voluntarily exercises. She greeted me with a too-cheerful voice and an alarming amount of energy.

"Welcome! You’re going to feel AMAZING after this!"

I had my doubts. The workout started simple enough, marching in place. Oh, I can do this, I thought. Maybe I was born to be an athlete after all. Then she had the audacity to say:

"Alright! Let’s pick up the pace!"

Excuse me? We were already at a pace. I was pacing just fine. But before I could file a formal complaint, we were squatting.

WHY ARE WE SQUATTING? WHO SIGNED ME UP FOR THIS?

The first squat felt okay. The second? A knee popped. The third? A snap. A crackle. A pop. By the fifth squat, my entire body was communicating in Morse code, sending distress signals into the universe.

Then came the lunges. I’m not exaggerating when I say lunges are just burpees in disguise. With the first lunge, my thigh muscles filed for divorce. By the second, my knees started writing their will. By the third, my soul fully left my body.

At one point, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, flailing, gasping, and resembling a wet, dying walrus. This was a mistake!

The Sweating Situation

I knew sweating would be involved. I wasn’t delusional. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the betrayal of my own skin. Sweat dripped down my back, settling in places sweat has no business being.

My hairline was soaked. I lifted my arm and was immediately attacked by my own armpit.

At one point, I leaned forward and a single bead of sweat slid dramatically down my forehead like I was in an action movie.

I took one look at my damp reflection and thought, Nope. This is where I die.

The Emotional & Physical Fallout

By the time the workout ended, I collapsed onto the floor, dramatically spreading my arms like a crime scene chalk outline.

The instructor on the screen was smiling, stretching effortlessly, and saying something about how I should "feel great."

Feel great? I was dying. Everything hurt. Muscles I didn’t even know I had were on fire. My breathing sounded like an asthmatic goose in distress. And the worst part? I now had to get up off the floor.

I attempted a graceful roll onto my side. It did not go well. I tried pushing myself up. My arms mutinied. At one point, I considered just accepting my fate and living on the floor forever.

But eventually, after a dramatic struggle, I crawled to the couch, collapsed onto it, and stared at the ceiling, questioning every life choice that had led me here.

The Morning After (Regrets Were Made)

The next morning? I woke up broken. I tried sitting up, my abs staged a protest. I swung my legs over the bed, my knees cracked like fireworks.

I attempted to walk, I moved like a newborn giraffe learning how to use its limbs. Why do my arms hurt? I didn’t even use my arms! Did I accidentally bench press my own dignity? 

By the time I made it to the kitchen, I needed to hold onto the counter for support. Everything hurt. Even my eyelids felt sore.

This was proof that exercise is a scam.

The Lessons Learned (Other Than “Avoid Lunges at All Costs”)

At some point, maybe after my second cup of coffee and a motivational pep talk from my dog, I realized something. Yes, exercise sucked. Yes, sweating was gross. Yes, my body made sounds like a haunted house.

But I had survived. And that meant something.

For years, I had convinced myself that I couldn’t do this. That I was too old, too tired, too set in my ways to start something new.

But I had done it. Badly. Painfully. Hilariously. But I had done it.

And maybe, just maybe, I could do it again.

Final Thoughts: If I Can Do This, So Can You

Am I suddenly a fitness expert? Absolutely not. Do I still hate sweating? With every fiber of my being. Will I ever do another lunge? Not unless my life depends on it.

But here’s what I do know:

Change isn’t supposed to feel comfortable. It’s supposed to challenge you. And sometimes, that challenge means collapsing onto the floor, cursing at an overly enthusiastic YouTube trainer, and reconsidering every decision that led you here. But if I can survive lunges, sweat, and my knees sounding like bubble wrap, then so can you. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a heating pad, avoid stairs for the foreseeable future, and have a serious discussion with my knees about their sudden fluency in an ancient clicking dialect I was not trained in.

The journey continues—whether my joints approve or not.