Thin v. Fit

In response to the approximately 30 months I spent as a size 2, cardio obsessed, calorie counter, my father would calmly and quite frequently repeat, "Do not confuse being thin with being fit."  Like any other well-balanced, teenage girl with wild eyes, red hair and a large attitude, I (more than once) responded to my father from the far wall of the utility room at our old house where a doctor's scale stood loyally by for most of my life, "If I ever weigh more than 120 pounds, I'll kill myself." And there it was, our continuing battle of wills over my weight, my outlook and my fitness.

I was once a 5'9, 116 pound cardio junky that skipped breakfast, ate half a turkey sandwich with an apple and raisins for lunch and about 1/4 of a plate of whatever my mom made for dinner.  On top of my aversion to, well, eating, I routinely followed up every high school field hockey, basketball and yes, track practice, with at least 60 minutes on the treadmill.  I thought I was in the shape of my life.

13 years later I am a 5'9, 138 pound recovering cardio addict who's father still warns against confusing being thin with being fit.   Please don't mistake "recovering cardio addict" for an entirely masterful transformation.  Up until October 5, 2010, I was defined by running and running, alone.  We're talking 6 days and 55 miles a week without a foundation and without a net.  Anyone reading this would have seen the neon "Injury-waiting-to-happen" sign over my head from a mile away.

On October 6, 2010 I sulked;

On October 7, 2010 I discovered I couldn't even do yoga;

On October 8, 2010 I threw a very informal pot-luck pity party; and

On October 9, 2010 I sucked it up, walked past the treadmill at the gym and sat down to stretch before what would become one of my favorite lifting workouts full of dumbbell flies and barbell bench presses.

In the month that followed, I fell in love with how strong I was getting while my legs rested.  The commitment and the workouts filled the void running's departure left and my attitude was finally in line with my father's.

I began physical therapy in the end of November.  While excruciatingly methodical and slow to give me the "cure" I wanted up front, Physical Therapy finally did what my father had tried to do when I was 16.  It broke me down and built me back up, as an athlete, not just a runner.

Today, there are callouses on my hands from lifting, I can successfully bench press the barbell, the strength in my hamstrings makes hills less painful and more attainable and I am as steady as I'll ever be.

13 years after he began, my father finally has a daughter that knows the difference between being thin and being fit.