For some of us, exercise is a means to an end – a painful, inhuman way to protect our vanity from buying clothes in a larger size and the consequence for inhaling a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for dinner.
And for those reasons I reluctantly attend a circuit training class three times a week, led by an instructor with more energy than a cheerleader on Starbucks. So brutal is she that twenty-something Marines and Army soldiers – men and women – arrive in droves for the privilege of morphing into one sweaty, dripping mass inside of an hour.
These Gen-X fighters routinely pass by me as we (OK, they) sprint over 6” to 12” steps, ladders, cones and other obstacles that would terrorize any Pro-Bowl Hall of Fame hero. The rules of engagement are simple – first, the slow people move to the right as the younger generation runs, skips, jumps and hurdles past us on the left. Second, we all go at our own pace, which is code for “Go as fast as you can. The faster you go and the more people you pass, the better human being you are.”
Last week, after dropping back to 19th place out of 20, 15 Reebok steps on risers stood between the nearest exit and me. Yours truly had had enough and was grateful to be near last place. It was time to walk … or crawl … humbly into oblivion.
I waved the Olympian behind me to pass. He had biceps each the size of Easter hams – Easter hams without any fat, by the way.
“No, ma’am,” he said with no obvious sign of cardiovascular strain, “go ahead.”
Moderately irritated for being cheated out of an early escape, I was forced to run-walk (mostly walk) the Mt. Everest of steps while he patently followed behind.
As we were picking up weights for the next round of suffering he explained, “I didn’t want you to quit.”
I forced my best fake smile, barely covering my fangs. “Oh, thank you, but I wasn’t going to quit.” My nose grew an inch.
And then I got it. This guy, who could easily squash me between his thumb and forefinger, chose to forego his obvious ability to finish first to make sure his teammate didn’t take the easy way out and quit.
Now there was an “aha” moment. Sure, giving back is rewarding, fun and can lead to greater things … but – ugh – does it really mean I have to drop out of the mad race to come in first?
And so this newly-humbled baby boomer was left to ponder … could I really choose last place – when first place was within reach – if doing so would keep someone from quitting? Could I learn to like being in last place once in a while? I don’t know –it’s a new one for me – and maybe for you too. Or not.
In any case, try love being last. Get out and give back.
Jane Hess is a life coach and free-lance writer. Please send your comments to Getoutandgiveback@hotmail.com.
