A few days ago, I triumphantly dragged my under-desk treadmill out of its two-month retirement, raised my monitors, plugged the thing in and announced that I was going to start moving more while I worked.
And I actually did it.
Almost an hour.
I walked at my desk while I worked, felt productive as hell about the whole arrangement and congratulated myself for finally putting this perfectly good treadmill to use.
My body responded to this exciting new health initiative by hurting everywhere for the next several days.
Excellent.
This is going very well.
Today I finally woke up feeling considerably better. I also started with a new class, which meant I had some stretches of time this morning while everyone worked independently on assigned activities.
Perfect treadmill opportunity.
And because apparently I learned absolutely nothing from our previous negotiations, I dutifully pulled it back out.
This time I stopped at 30 minutes.
Not because I was trying to be particularly responsible, although we’re welcome to pretend that’s what happened.
I stopped because my stomach suddenly informed me that it would be taking over the day’s itinerary.
And now my ulcerative colitis has decided to flare.
Because why should my joints get to have all the fun?
My rheumatoid arthritis has already been getting increasingly difficult to deal with. Biologics work beautifully—until they don’t. Something helps for a while, my body apparently studies the enemy’s tactics, develops a counteroffensive and we’re back to figuring out what comes next.
It is exhausting.
Not I’m tired and could use a nap exhausting.
It’s the particular exhaustion that comes from having a body that sometimes turns ordinary things into negotiations.
I want to exercise.
I want to walk.
I want to take care of myself.
I want to do the things I’m supposed to do to keep my body strong, my heart working and myself moving.
But sometimes I do the healthy thing and my joints retaliate.
Sometimes I finally feel well enough to try again and my digestive system calls an emergency meeting.
Sometimes I can’t fucking win.
So today I walked for 30 minutes.
Then I stopped.
One thing I didn’t do was lower my monitors.
They’re still at standing height.
Because if walking isn’t happening for the rest of today, maybe standing can. I can change positions. I can sit when I need to. I can stand when that feels better. I can move around without demanding that my body perform some arbitrary amount of exercise just so I can call the day successful.
Maybe that’s something this new Body and Bones section of my journal needs to document too.
Not just recipes and workouts and miles and healthy choices.
The attempts.
The adjustments.
The days when I manage an hour and feel accomplished.
The days when 30 minutes is plenty.
And the days when keeping myself upright is about as much participation as I’m willing to offer.
I’m exhausted today.
My stomach hurts. My joints hurt. I’m frustrated with a body that seems determined to object every time I develop a reasonable plan for it.
But the treadmill is still here.
The monitors are still up.
And when my body settles its shit down, I’ll try again.
Maybe not for an hour next time.
We are apparently going to have to negotiate the terms of this relationship.
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