I’m learning an important life lesson right now.
Consistency is a great teacher.
Today, I completed day 17 of The 30 Day Shred. I haven’t ever really consistently worked out before this. I was born into a fairly athletic family, so I played sports growing up, but I never went so far with it that I actually trained. It was more just for fun, and then when it stopped being fun, I was ready to be done.
I stopped playing sports completely in college, because I fell in love with friends and music. As it always goes, what you love is what you give all your minutes to. Could write a whole post on that in and of itself, but I choose to not digress here.
When I got married, my uber-handsome husband and I decided to try P90X, a 90-day workout program that’s apparently supposed to rip you out pretty quickly. I never found out, because we lasted for about 30 days before realizing that an hour and a half a day wasn’t something we were prepared to commit to when we also had these small things called jobs and lives.
I got a gym membership when we moved to Texas last August. Have you ever sat down and worked out exactly how much money you pay each time you go to the gym, based on how much money you pay per month vs how many times you go? For example, yoga, which I quite love. But yoga studios are expensive. If I pay $120 a month for an unlimited membership and go every day of the month, I’m only paying $4 per session. However, if I only go once a week, I’m pay $30 per session. Let me put it this way. My eight-month membership at Texas Family fitness cost me about $47 every time I went to the gym. Once a month. Or twice. If that. Maybe. That is ridiculous.
Y’all, let’s not pretend I’ve been really committed to getting in shape, here.
Enter my dear friend Kasey Cox. She started the 30 Day Shred program, and had been posting about it on Facebook for a few days, trying to build up some accountability. She posted at one point that level one of the three-level workout is free on YouTube, so why not? Thought I’d give it a shot.
That first day, I wanted to die. And the second day, and the third, and parts of the fourth, and for a few minutes on day seven, and most CERTAINLY on day fifteen. But the crazy thing is this: day one, I struggled to do five pushups. And believe me, I’m using the term pushups really loosely here. On my knees, going down to about a 45 degree angle and trying not to die while doing it. Today, seventeen days in, I did ten big-girl pushups. On my toes, down until my chest hovered a couple inches above the ground, back up. And when I say my chest hovered, know that I don’t cheat by having big boobs.
Ten big-girl pushups might not sound like much. But for me? It feels like a miracle.
And the thing is…I haven’t been working out hours a day. I’ve been pushing myself really hard for twenty minutes every day. Twenty minutes. People, there are songs on my iPod that last longer than twenty minutes.
It’s just been the consistency of doing it every day. Every single day, whether I feel like it or not. Every single day, even when I cuss like a sailor at Jillian, which I will own up to occasionally doing. Even if Megan and I scream so loud the entire neighborhood thinks we’re giving birth with no drugs. Even if I had two enormous cupcakes the night before and they’re still sitting like a rock on my stomach, taunting me while I’m trying to do a decent plank.
The consistency of showing up and doing it is everything.
It makes me want to show up and do a lot of other things every day, just to see what’s possible.