I think I'm going to write about fitness and my evolution regarding fitness here on Wednesdays.
I used to know a PE teacher. She was a cheerleader for a major, Pac-10 University, and made many appearances on ESPN making the #1 sign for the cameras.
She was also an athlete, with the abs and sculpted arms to prove it.
Lazy English majors like myself rarely encountered such folk, being too busy devouring plates of cheese fries and discussing the merits of The Naturalists. So, she was a delightful little foreign creature, like spending time with a Hobbit.
One day, over smoothies (of course!) she said, "Nancy. Don't freak out." Her eyes widened. "But I'm afraid I'm becoming Exercise Dependent."
I snorted. "What? Like, that's a disorder or something?"
She nodded her head, "Yes! Like my friend, Becki. She worked out three hours a day, and if she didn't, she started crying. She walked around the Gamma house, up and down the stairs, for hours."
I frowned. "That sounds like she was anorexic. Or depressed?"
"She wasn't anorexic. She ate like you do."
I took another sip of my Jamba Juice, shifted my legs. "But depressed for sure."
"Yes," she said, "She's dependent on exercise. Get it?"
"Yes," I said. Not even a bit, I thought. "So, are you depressed?"
"No," she said, "I just decided to do Pilates yesterday! And I loved it! So, now, I'm totally exercise dependent."
I bit my tongue, and thought about buying a cookie.
She watched me, a grown woman wearing overalls, and said, "So, what do you think?"
I walked back to the table, steaming cookie in hand. I broke off a piece. "Marcy? I think we'll get through this."
(This does not negate the reality of exercise dependence, which I've learned, is a real thing.)