#15 - The Decision (Guest Post)

by Jenny Martin

It’s late; scary late. The only people awake at this hour are criminals and new mothers.

I happen to be the latter.

My newborn drives a pretty hard bargain; if I don’t feed her she screams, so there is really no getting around my current state of wakefulness no matter how wrong it feels to function at this hour.

I’m not sure what it is about this particular time of day, but apparently the people who run television believe that 2:30 in the morning is the perfect time to sell fitness equipment and cooking utensils. I hate bad TV and infomercials are the worst, but I have to watch something to keep from falling asleep. So, I suppose ordering a new set of steak knives for just three easy payments of $19.95 is inevitable.

This isn’t the first infomercial of the night. Some supermodel/actress/dancer tried to sell me a new fitness program half an hour ago. I’m still thinking about it. Not the program; I seriously doubt her body was achieved through a unique combination of belly dancing and Chai spiced tea. No, I’m still thinking about the word fitness.

 What is fitness?

Is it being able to fit into stretchy yoga pants? Is it being able to climb my staircase without getting winded? Is it running marathons in those embarrassing little runner’s shorts? What is fitness? And why do I have to be fit? There are a lot of people who have to be fit. Peyton Manning comes to mind. I’m sure being able to throw a football without jiggling triceps is probably written into his contract somewhere. Kelly Ripa looks pretty buff. Heck, even Superman needs to rock a nice pair tights, but me? Why does it matter if I’m fit? Does God really care?

I mean He’s got a lot going on; God- not Superman (well maybe Superman, but that's not the point). Off the top of my head, I’m pretty sure world peace occupies most of God’s time and I’d like to think he’s working on America’s national debt in some way, so what does it matter if a married mother of two can’t get physically fit?

Oh, right. He’s God-he cares.

He cares about it because deep down I care about it. I care about more than I want to admit. I care about it even when I tell people I don’t care about it. I care about it every time my diet fails. I care about it when I don’t have the energy to play with my toddler. I care about it every morning I get dressed and nothing fits. I care about it when my doctor tells me I have high cholesterol and am headed toward type II diabetes.

I care, but I wish I didn’t.

Because if I didn’t care then I could go on being fat without thinking about how my weight affects the people around me. But it does affect them and that changes things.

 Change.

I have to change. I have to fix what is wrong about my health and that means work. Hard work, if I remember correctly. I used to be fit. Once upon a time I was an athlete. It was in high school, but still, it counts even if there isn’t a trace of that girl left. I remember what that girl had to do every day to stay fit. I remember what she had to eat. I remember what she had to drink. I remember sweat; lots of sweat, and muscle pain, and green leafy vegetables. And when I think about all of that I get scared. I get scared because I know it is impossible for me to get back to that girl. At least it is impossible if I try doing it by myself.

However impossible it seems I must find that girl again and perhaps take her out for coffee. She and I have to get reacquainted and then we have to have a conversation with this God that cares too much about me to let me fail.

He’s been there all along prompting me about my health, waiting for me to involve him in the process, and I’ve been running. Not literally, of course, that’s part of my problem. No, I’ve been avoiding God and this conversation for a long time, and it would appear that I’m out of excuses. He’s here. Asking. Knocking.  Waiting. And I have to open the door.