Do I Dare?

Within the next couple of weeks, I am going to swallow my considerable vanity and buy a bathing suit.  I have not worn one in over twenty years.  I want to go in the pool at the Y.  I want to go into the hot tub.  I need this.

The coaches keep telling me that no one watches, no one cares.  I do. 

Why do I care how I look in a swimsuit at the Y, for Pete's sake?  I am there to lose pounds and to repair my health.  I am not man-hunting.  I want to be liked, not lusted after.  At my age and indeterminate number of pounds, it isn't likely anyway, so why do I care how I look?

Because I do, that's all.  One of my coaches is slim and graceful, with the body of a swimmer or a runner (which she is).  At fifty, she is smart, a little shy, remarkably funny and has a mass of curly dark hair most of us would kill for.  But get her in a swimsuit at the Y?  Nope.  Like me, she has body image issues.

Or that gal working with the weight straps.  Tall and lean, maybe in her mid-twenties, she exercises mostly in the deserted gym.  She will not swim.  She hates her legs.  Really?

I became serious about moving and exercising last October.  I was self-conscious (still am), feeling fat and lazy, feeling unloved and just plain ugly.  I had been working on my mind, but not on my physical body.  All that changed in an instant, don't ask me why or how.  I couldn't tell you.

I started with a walk, moved to the Y when it got cold and dark.  Began the treadmill for a few minutes at a slow pace, eventually speeding up and adding machines and Pilates to my regimen.  Thanks to encouragement from all around, I am finally getting reasonably fit.  I have a long way to go, but at least I have started.

The swimsuit issue still exists.  I know it is silly, my fears irrational.  I will do this, and I will do it soon.  It can't be any harder to conquer than the treadmill.