Free Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul by Jack Canfield Page A

thirties, forties and fifties. I thought mostly twenty-year-old blondes in tights went to health clubs. At forty-five, I was in the right demographic in my Big Dog gym pants.
    We concluded with a cardiovascular workout. Captain Code gave me a choice of stair steppers, exercise bikes, treadmills and other pieces of equipment designed with your sweat in mind. “You’ll start to burn fat after twenty minutes.”
    “Put the timer on thirty,” I bravely retort.
    “Good girl! You’re doing great!” she says this for the twentieth time. I love hearing it. An hour of being the center of attention when I am used to ignoring my needs in lieu of family demands felt surprisingly rejuvenating. I wanted more.
    Lorri Ann whipped out a set of headphones called “Cardio-Theater” and plugged them into a box on the machine. Two television sets hang from the ceiling in front of us. “This TV is Channel 4, that one is Channel 15, or you can listen to music or talk shows.”
    Working out wasn’t so bad after all. The handle of my treadmill measured my heart rate. I felt sudden exhilaration. I had a trainer! At long last I was learning the correct way to use intimidating equipment that would tone my body in new and unexpected ways. And perhaps my attitude might get toned in the process. For the first time in ages, I felt like a star.
    Suzan Davis

The Exchange Rate
    After years of inactivity, my expanding waistline forced me to swap vegetables. I traded my membership in the couch potato club for one in a squash club.
    After handing over my credit card for initiation and monthly dues, I discovered fitness didn’t come cheap. With the money I had left, I bought a squash racket and a tennis dress that fit my budget better than my body. It groaned when I zipped it up, but if I didn’t breathe too deeply maybe the seams would hold until I lost ten pounds.
    Over the next few months, between running around the court to pick up missed balls and the odd rally where I actually returned the shot, my outfit stopped protesting. It took another couple of months for the court, which rivaled a football field in size, to shrink to standard dimensions. The rallies lengthened as balls that had previously whizzed past my racquet were now within reach. Having previously exchanged vegetables, I nowexchanged vowels as I moved from fat to fit. The time had come to ratchet up my exercise program another notch. Although the club director had mentioned a workout room on the top floor, for the first six months I hadn’t had the energy to make it past the second floor. Now I was ready.
    The third floor housed two small rooms, divided by a wall of mirrors, to form one larger area. Stationary bicycles and rowing machines filled one side; the other held racks of free weights. Large doorways allowed a banked wooden track to circle the perimeter of the two rooms.
    I headed for the track, sprinted off and promptly collided with a runner charging through the doorway. He pointed to a sign and continued running. I hobbled over to read the sign, which directed members to run clockwise on even days of the month and counterclockwise on odd days to avoid uneven build-up of muscles. I pictured a clock, complete with hands, and set out again in the opposite direction.
    Off to an inauspicious start, I figured my running experience could only improve. With eight laps to the mile, the hardest part would be keeping track of the number. I needn’t have worried. By the end of my first lap, I was huffing and puffing so hard I had to stop. Something was very wrong.
    Stumbling off the track, I realized the “something” was “someone.” Me. The flushed, sweat- and mascara-streaked face that greeted me in the multiple mirrors confirmed it. I erased the word “fit” from my vocabulary and replaced it with “cardiac victim.”
    After my heart stopped pounding, I crept downstairs to the women’s locker room and splashed cold water on my face. As the redness faded, I made a vow to