Worth-less

This morning I took a (too) early PiYo class at the gym – a horrible reminder that my hip flexors are made of steel, and not the tensile tissue they should be.  #crosstrainingfail

As the class wrapped up, the instructor encouraged the class….”What sport are we majoring in?”  And everyone chanted back – “LOOKING GOOD!”

[insert record screeching]  WHHHHHAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT??!?!?!

maya-rudolph-0

The sport of looking good?  The sport of freaking looking good?

I waited to hear if it was an April Fool’s Joke, but sadly, this clearly wasn’t.

While the media would like you to think that I live in the land of blonde extensions, Botox, and bitty clothes, the truth is that most of where I live is a little less Real Housewives of Orange County and more Real Moms of the School Drop Off donned in paint-laden sweatpants and baseball cap covered ponytails.

And this morning, dear PiYo instructor, you made me hit my wall.  Since I have to add another digit to my age this month maybe I’m a little more sensitive to your comments, but really – taking care of my body only to look good?  Psssh…please.

Let’s face it, my body is most definitely ..errr…welll…ahhhh….changing.

The ongoing conversation between my belly button and boobs centers around the fact that the distance between them continues to grow smaller.  It would be a lot easier to be better neighbors if it wasn’t for the canned biscuit looking skin that a few pregnancies have left coming between the two.

My face has a few life lines.  The kiddo face plants into the asphalt, sleepless nights with babies, and tantruming toddlers have all started to make their appearance.  Let’s face it, some years have given my face a little more wear than the others.

The magazines, the TV and internet (and apparently the PiYo instructor) all tell me that my value is going down.  Like a brand spankin’ new car driven off the lot, each passing day chips away at my worth.  My miles splits will grow longer, my laugh lines deeper, my thighs bigger, and oh the places my boobs will go, but all of these things are happening only because I have lived.

And I have a hell of a lot more living to do which is the exact reason I am working out – not because life is a giant beauty pageant, but because I want to be the best me I can.  I want my body to feel and work well for a very long time (even if my parts aren’t in the same places they started out).

As an athlete I value my body and the things it can (and can’t) do, but more than that, my body is the mechanism to me being ME – not the definition of my worth.  I am mom, sister, daughter, friend, employee, teacher, Food Network star wannabe.  I am aunt, bandaid giver, math tutor, computer instructor, rescuer to the bathroom floor which magnetically attracts pee.

So no dear instructor, I am not playing the sport of looking good, I am playing the sport of living well.

What “sport” do you play?

Have you ever heard a fitness instructor say something that’s pushed you over your limit?

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