I was up very early this morning hiking the hills of St. Charles, Missouri. It was chilly, but I opted out of wearing a jacket because the cool air felt nice on my hot skin. The stars were in full splendor, shining down on the lonely street as my sneakers popped on the pavement. I wanted to run. I wanted to breathe hard and dash through the trees with my arms pumping. But I couldn’t. My faulty body sags, like an old horse whose swayed back can’t carry a rider any longer. So I limp, and hobble, and exhale my disappointment.
I was not alone for long. Runners with headlamps and flashlights dashed around me as if to shame me with their speed. Because it was dark, I shouted greetings only to be rebuffed by silence. “Go in peace,” I thought to myself. “Enjoy it while you can.” Running is a great grace that was given to me for a while. Now I must settle for a brisk walk, Kung Fu arms, and stealth. Yes, stealth! That great art afforded to Ninja warriors and mothers of mischievous children.
I saw a very slender person walking towards me at a distance and waved. “Good morning!” I shouted, as if I was in a parade and he was the paparazzi. He waved back and said, “That’s what I say every morning I have the good fortune to wake up.” As I got closer I noticed he was advanced in years and moving very deliberately. “You are doing GREAT!” I said, as if I was his personal motivational coach. He chuckled and carried on. As the distance between us grew, I considered that those of us who can’t move as gracefully as we might like belong to a very special club….
The Persistent Hobbler’s Club should not be confused with The Determined Gobbler’s Club(of which I am a former member). Hobbler’s around the world unite! Lock arms and wobble in unison. Can’t bend your knee? Lurch in the general direction of the group. Can’t wiggle your toes, stomp and moan! Is your arthritic elbow giving you fits, flap like a bird instead! I promise no one will hold it against you. We are all in this together! But all kidding aside, it comforts me to know there are others who are dealing with chronic body issues and still refuse to give up.
Today I encountered a woman in the Godiva Chocolatier shop in the mall. She overheard me inquiring about sugar free chocolate and inserted herself into the conversation I was having with the clerk. “What do you mean you don’t eat sugar? Life is not worth living without chocolate.” I explained that many companies make sugar free chocolate and it is actually very tasty. I gave her the cliff notes version of my story and her eyes grew big. “Good for you!” She said, with this look of utter bewilderment. Then she just stood there and stared at me with this amused look like I was the drunken squirrel in that video floating around YouTube. That was when I realized I probably shouldn’t wander into chocolate stores and start flapping my gums about weight loss. So I ambled out without making a purchase, fully aware that yet another stranger thinks I’m a weirdo.
I often find that by living a healthy lifestyle I am a little at odds with the general public. I don’t fit in with the super fit crowd and I don’t fit in with the unfit crowd either. Does that mean by all intents and purposes that I am genuine misfit?
If being a misfit means shopping almost exclusively at The Salvation Army because my weight fluctuates and I don’t want to spend a fortune on clothes…
If it means dousing my veggies in apple cider vinegar and making whole wheat pizza crust…
If it means avoiding foods in cans and manifesting genuine contempt for soda and fast food restaurants…
If being a misfit means my husband sticks his nose up at the dinner I cooked and flees the house for Steak N Shake…
Well then, Margaret Wolfinbarger, you just might be a misfit.
So if you are my neighbor and you accidentally catch a glimpse of me working out in the basement, those twisty, hand-standy things are called planks. I realize it looks different when the “professionals” do it. I don’t care. I’m doing the best I can. And no, I’m not constipated, I’m doing crunches. And yes, those big metal clutches are hand weights. They make me strong. Come to think of it, misfit is not the right term. Actually, it’s Miss Fit!
So what if Richard Simmons is my hero? Who cares if I have a little bit of cellulite? Does it really matter if a trip to Sports Authority makes me giddy? This Miss Fit is one happy camper. So if you’d like to join Club Misfit, sign up now. Membership is FREE!
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