Middle Life Crisis #1
I think it started with a post on instagram about women losing xx% of muscle after they turn 40, so they need to stop doing cardio or whatever they are doing and start lifting weight or maybe it was adding the weight lift to all the other activities, but kind of giving the impression that only weight lifting mattered. “If you are not lifting, then you are doing it wrong” — said a post on this trainer page that I have no clue how I ended up at.
I’m turning 39 years old next month, so yes, your math is right, I am turning 40 next year. It’s wild. The thought of turning 40 is both crazy and amazing. I’m very much looking forward to what some friends have described as “the end of the people-pleasing season, the zero f*** to give season, the best season of my life season”, so yeah, I want all that.
I listen to my friends. They are wise. One of the wisest friend told me I should write about this whole story after I sent her a voice message while on way to cancel my gym membership after spending, I don’t know, like $700 in body composition and metabolisms tests, dietitian appointments and monthly fees. Remember I work for a small nonprofit, so this is like 30% of my salary and that’s exactly what defines a middle life crisis — spending lots of money on stuff you know it has nothing to do with you.
But hey, four months ago I was convinced that the gym was what I needed. After 6 years of doing only yoga and some reformer pilates, maybe it’s time for a change, I thought. Maybe my immune system is stronger and will be able to build some muscle, start my forties in the best shape ever for real, instead of looking like I’m starving myself as I did so many times in the past. It’s the right thing.
I go in for my initial appointments. The doctor prints my results and has a surprised look on his face. He tells me to go again, maybe the fancy scale with sensors all over was wrong, but it turns out the results are confirmed: Thali Sugisawa, 38 years old, 5'5, 122lbs and 36% of fat — basically in the obese line, the doctor shows me in the fresh printed report.
The plan to correct my body? Lifting weight, eating lots of protein, gaining more weight, tracking macros, and… I don’t even know what else because by the 4th thing I was hyperventilating.
I went out for a walk as I had some time between the body composition test and the dietitian, and called Matt, who helped calm me down. He was in Key Largo for a gig and after he told me about the huge mansions he was driving by, I redirected my anger towards people who live in mansions, actually, toward billionaires and I felt better after cursing all of them. True story.
Anyway, later that night I met a doctor at an event hosted by the Asian American Chamber of Commerce and when I saw that her business card said weight management, I shared my gym tests experience and she gave me some really good insights on how we, Asians, cannot go by these numbers. Our bodies are smaller and softer compared to Europeans, for example. “Don’t get caught up in the numbers. Just keep exercising your body and mind.” I felt better and no billionaires were cursed at that time.
After shaking the initial shock off, everything else sounded like a good plan. I downloaded the app and got my workout plan in. A fancy, brand new gym will motivate me. So many classes. I could go try body pump, maybe body combat, wait, what is this bum & core class — look at gym people trying to be cute. Bum class.
I started showing up two, three times a week. Started in the treadmill or step machine, and then headed to the weight equipments. I get to the first one on my list and there’s someone there. Okay, I head to the next one and take my time looking at the picture that shows where your knees are supposed to go, adjusting the seat forward or backwards, higher or lower, whatever I do, it never feels right. Whatever, I better start because someone is walking back and forth looking a little impatient. Three series of 12. I put on 30lbs and it’s very light. I change to 50lbs and damn, too heavy, I guess 40lbs is my happy place. But then I don’t know if I’m counting in English or in Portuguese or both and then was it 12 or 15 repetitions, or wait, was I on 8?
The other four machines in my plan are taken. The other side where I could probably do some of the exercises is packed with professional gym-goers. It’s too intimidating. I don’t think I can even go there with my shorts and t-shirt from Target as they all seem to be sponsored by Under Armor, so I stay in my senior/beginner block.
Because it’s a fancy gym and covid made alcohol as necessary as air, they have these huge containers with disposable wipes. I use them, but feel incredibly bad thinking about the waste.
One day I forgot my headphones and workout to the music on the speakers. Oh my, I hate all those songs. Someone change the station. There’s a limit to how many Dua Lipa songs in a row one should listen in the span of 50 minutes.
The cute bum class, as well as body pump, are always full. I never get a chance to reserve my spot in the app. It sucks.
I stick to the treadmill and I enjoy it, even though random instagram trainer and the doctor who was surprised with my fat percentage, told me to focus on weight lifting. But the instructor on the screen of the treadmill is so nice, so motivating. She says positive things, like “you are doing great. keep it up.” I know that she can’t really see that I’m actually only jogging instead of running, but oh well, I welcome some validation any time of the day.
Whatever I get to do in my time at the gym, I do, which is mostly jogging for 25 minutes and two or three weight exercises because everyone is at the gym when I am at the gym and using the machines I was supposed to use and I don’t want to wait or go after they sweated all over it and only wiped a little bit and way too fast and wasted all those wipes for nothing.
Annoyed.
The last two weeks the gym started annoying me profoundly.
I told myself I needed to try something different, so I booked a pool class called AquaFit. I joined 4 seniors at 7am in the warm pool. The classmates were water gym experts. They squatted, lifted foam weights and took all the steps to the left and to the right without missing a beat. I, on the other hand, stayed in the back where the water was probably too deep for aerobics and kept floating in almost every attempt to follow the instructions, or going under water at every squat. Who invented such thing as squatting in the water? Gee.
After that I realized that well, turns out, the gym is not really my thing. If I’m being honest, I hate gym music, I hate sweaty gym machines, I hate gym people (wait, I like my friends who go to the gym, just hate the unknown people sponsored by under armor), I hate the amount of towels roll folded, I just hate it all. Not my thing, never was, never will. I gotta be okay with it.
The last two weeks I decided to put the weights that Matt bought in 2020 during the lockdown back into use. I decided that I could jog outdoors. I could go back to yoga. I could do some home workouts with simple stuff like bands. I did it for two weeks. Walked outside, came home, did some arm exercises, some lunges, some abs, stretched in the comfort of my own home and my own and only sweat. Ah, felt so good.
Today my wise friend sent me Lizzo’s new album and I knew it was a sign. A sign of empowerment, a sign of the season of not giving a f*** about instagram random trainers and diets and before/after pictures. A sign to do my thing even if that’s 100% different than everyone else. A sign to let go of numbers and standards that are not meant for me.
Stepping into my final year in my thirties doing my hair toss, checking my nails and feeling good as hell.
I love you, Lizzo.
Stay slaying,
Thali
