I haven’t studied science in any form since Year 10. I am no longer in my 40s. So, this last handshake with science was quite some time ago. I didn’t mind it at school, I liked chemistry particularly, I think.*
This is relevant because, as I mentioned in one of my last newsletters, I’ve started a Personal Trainer qualification. I felt I had to give myself some ‘concrete’ qualification to fall back on, in lieu of using the PhD to qualify me for something or indeed, get work.
Anyway, I thought long and hard – or perhaps fitfully – about doing this qualification. I’ve thought fitfully about a lot of things this year. I don’t know if it’s the approaching release valve that is menopause, but this year has been SHIT. It is best described as a succession of lows, smashed up against some highs, the interchange of which happens inexplicably and without warning.
Obviously, my family LOVES this.
I personally love the bloating, the crying, the fire that someone lit inside me (Are you hot? Is it just me? Can we turn the fan on?), and of course, my favourite, THE RAGE.
Late last year, walking through the tunnel at Central, trying to fight my way to UTS, no doubt wearing jeans that cut into me and socks that were leaving a mark, sweating and angry at every person wearing a puffer jacket in this weather, I talked to my mother on the phone. I can’t believe, I said, that more middle-aged women aren’t responsible for homicide.
Because it takes a lot of control to not release this rage.
It takes a lot of control not to smash the radio or television when someone – usually a politician – says something unjust or unfair or just stupid.
It takes a lot of control not to throw clothes on the floor when my son puts his work socks in the wash in bulky balls.
It takes a lot of control not to cock my fingers and pretend to shoot the man on the train who stands in my space. Again.
It takes a lot of control not to collapse into a crying heap when I can’t reach anything in the cupboards because EVERYTHING IS SO F**KING HIGH WHY DID WE BUILD THEM LIKE THIS.
This rage, at the moment, is channelled into dropping the barbell from the great heights of my shoulders (about 130cm for those keeping track), because we’re ALLOWED to do it then. But only after 5pm because otherwise people complain. (And on the rare occasions that I do drop the barbell, I still flinch and look around for someone to whom I should apologise).
Right. Where was I?
So I show up to this PT course and pretty much everyone else there would be lucky to be 25. They all look fit (some women wonderfully, unbelievably musclebound). Their faces are fresh and ready and hopeful for what life will bring them.
And then there is me.
Jaded, crumpled, looking defeated by a body that has decided to do its own thing.
I look like that, but I have not given up.
I am still going.
I have experience on my side. I also have the pride that led me to deadlift 80kg for 3 reps, against my physio’s advice (I just had knee surgery), during one of our classes, because I didn’t want to look old and weak.
(My knee is fine but my wife wasn’t happy).
The hardest thing about this course, so far, is the assessments. I am not used to doing multiple choice quizzes or giving short answers.
Yesterday I was slogging my way through a set of short answer questions and I was confronted with: explain why people with depression would benefit from physical activity.
I think it took me half an hour to answer this.
Because I had to research. I had to find evidence. I mean, I know people with depression should exercise – I wrote a perhaps too honest story about it – but how do I explain why.
I answered something like: there were many studies showing there is evidence of benefits for people with depression (ref, ref, etc) but that the exact mechanism was unclear. I noted one paper listed a number of hypotheses and named one. (Change in brain neurotransmitters). Ref. Ref. Etc.
I don’t know if this is what they are looking for. Therein lies my problem. I don’t know what they want. I am more comfortable writing ten thousand words about a question like that, than I am writing three sentences. Because it’s just so big.
Everything, all the problems, all the world, it’s just so big.
I wish I could take my brain out, lay it on the table, and walk away for a few weeks.
But I can’t.
This is where weightlifting comes in. When I weightlift, there is no future and no past, there is only the moment. The conscious planting of feet on the floor. The feeling of the bar and its knurls in my hands. The awareness of my upper back and the dropping of shoulders, chest up.
I learned a long time ago that physical activity - and sport more broadly - is not just for amusement. That’s why I’m doing this course. It’s why I coach and it’s why I still have dreams that I can drink protein and watch my diet and train 5 days a week and call myself an athlete.
Rage, hot flushes, abdominal bloating, whatever. As Ricky says: “Chest up. Show them who you are”.
That’s how I’m choosing to move forward.
Enjoy your weekend. I know a lot of you will be watching the AFL Grand Final. I’ll be at Henson Park, watching my beloved Giants (hopefully not tearing my heart out, again).
* In Year 10 I did work experience as a physiotherapist (yes, can you imagine), and as a librarian (of course). When I was selecting subjects for year 11, I had to choose between visual art and chemistry as they were being taught at the same time. I would not be permitted to do both. I needed to do chemistry if I wanted to get into physio at uni, as it was a prerequisite. I chose art. I still wonder if this choice was some great fork in the road of my life that still has its effects, or whether I should move on.
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