EXERCISE RULES

“You’re always so happy after a run,” Evan said this morning after I poured a cup of coffee and we chatted a few minutes upon my return. “I think it’s the dopamine.”

 

“Maybe,” I said. Likely not. Endorphins, dopamine, other body rushes triggered from a workout…I’ve heard people talk about them, made up things to justify a fitness class in lieu of another hour of doomscrolling on the sofa. “I obsess over exercise all day until it’s done. I’m happy when it’s over.”

 

“I wish I had your disease,” Evan said.

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

I know Evan was joking and I took it as such. There’s a lot about my eating disorder he doesn’t understand, but this was not going to evolve into another prolonged Q&A, thank goodness. I’ll leave the information dump here instead.

 

Not everyone with an eating disorder is obsessive about exercise, but I met several while in treatment programs and it came as a relief that I wasn’t the only one ruled by workouts. The year 2019 was my most intense attempt to tame my eating disorder, attending weekly supervised meals and outpatient programming before spending a quarter of the year undergoing live-in interventions, first in an ED ward at a hospital and then in a group home. I gained a few insights but no pounds. Really though, my weight isn’t in a harmful range, as confirmed by cardiologists and internists after some initial concerns. 

 

In hospital, I wasn’t allowed to do any exercise at first. I knew this prior to admission and fretted about it aplenty but then surrendered to the program and its attempts to distract me by required participation in No-Impact Adaptive Yoga and Arts & Crafts (I turfed the painted flowerpot and the first-grade-caliber greeting cards I made for no one). When I received increasingly longer passes to leave the hospital, I was still not allowed to exercise. I was supposed to take the bus whenever I stopped by my home and do things non-exercisers do…perhaps some of that aforementioned doomscrolling, readily available with Trump still in the White House. I’d report back my compliance each time I returned to the hospital ward. The fact I’d race-walked home and fit in a quick gym workout or jog on the seawall was my little secret. And, yes, as with this morning, I was happier after having done it.

 

In the group home, the dietitian and occupational therapist allowed me to exercise some. We went back and forth, the negotiations seeming more intense than what they were used to. I think they knew they’d have to give me something or I’d just lie about sitting on park benches, policing people who tried to get out of picking up their Rottweiler’s poop. Big dog, big poop. How did they not know that when they adopted it as a cute, little pup? Every week, I reopened our negotiations, pressing for more time and more options. I’m convinced the dietitian grew to hate me. My desperation may have made me sound combative, even aggressive. Still, I settled on allowing more blank spaces on my calendar, working out three days in a row and taking the fourth off. There were time limits as well, but I blew those off. Getting every fourth day off from exercise was radical enough.

 

I will concede that my body needed the more frequent rest days, given that every workout remained extreme in terms of intensity and duration. I enjoyed having more days when I didn’t have to think about a looming fitness routine, when I could agree to meet a friend for coffee without worrying about it cutting into gym time or a bike ride, when I could read without constantly checking to see how long I had before heading to the pool for the allotted time to swim lengths.

 

I don’t know what triggered it—COVID boredom perhaps—but in June 2020 I reverted to my old ways, insisting on six days of working out each week. I exercise when I'm sick. I exercise when I'm injured. Even with international travel, I haven’t strayed once from this expectation. I’m not sure if I could say this is a choice or that this is about commitment, discipline or some deep belief in the benefits of exercise. Without dopamine or endorphins, it’s not about pleasure. It just is. It has to be.

 

It's not entirely true that once my daily workout is done, it’s out of mind. I move on to thinking about how my workouts will look for the upcoming days, frequently checking my weather app to see when I can slot in outdoor activities (e.g., hiking, running, cycling) and when I should plan on a gym or swim workout instead. I’m not sure if Vancouver truly has difficult weather patterns to predict or if somebody just does a poor job of it, but I frequently have to readjust plans as weather updates change and then change yet again. It’s stressful for someone who has to schedule exercise and absolutely cannot just take a rain check on it. 

 

At present, Evan and I are exploring the northwesternmost corner of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. I climbed out of bed before daybreak to fit in a run before a day of beach walking, a road trip to Neah Bay and a short walk/hike to Cape Flattery, the northwestern corner of the contiguous United States. Lovely activities but not enough calorie burning. Run done, I can enjoy them now at a leisurely pace, the next day’s run not until tomorrow morning. Unless it rains, as is more likely in this area which is a short drive from the Hoh Rain Forest in Olympic National Park. Please let there be a gap in the rain. Plan Bs are so tricky on the road with no bike and no gym or pool nearby.

 

But happy. Yes, I am indeed feeling that. Maybe it comes from relief. Run done and a lovely day of new adventures ahead of me with my partner. I’ll do my best to put pesky thoughts of tomorrow’s fitness aside. That’s another sort of workout.