Way back when, at the beginning of January, my husband had a bright idea for us to complete a 60-day fitness challenge. I drank some of his homemade wine and then agreed.

For 60-days straight, we would work-out every. Single. Day. Then go down to 5 days a week for a while, then 4 days a week for the rest of our lives. Oh, sorry. The. Rest. Of. Our. Lives.

It hasn’t been easy, but we’ve done it. Well, he’s done it and I’ve mostly done it. I missed 2 out of the 4 days when I was in Houston and then I missed another day after I weighed myself, punched the wall and screamed, “What’s the point?”

There have been a couple of times when my work-out consisted of a few sets of lunges and some push-ups and a couple of times when I battled the 14 year old in Just Dance in order to break a sweat, but for the most part…at least 50 of the last 60 days, have been intense; with a lot of strength-training, rowing, boxing, running, swimming, ellipticizing, biking, stepping, and generally wanting to punch my trainer in the face.

Oh, and a boatload of laundry. It’s all “Sweatin’ Because We’re Oldies” up in here.

Have I lost weight? Not much. I try not to weigh myself, because it just makes me angry. I see minor changes, though and I KNOW I’m doing the right thing. And since exercise is a whole lot mental, knowing is at least half the battle.

And, speaking of the correlation between mind and body, I have almost completely weaned myself off my Zoloft during this challenge. That’s a big deal. I’m figuring out how to reduce my anxiety without meds and have only thought I was going to die once. Just once!

I have learned that an easy work-out is not enough to keep the anxiety-demons at bay, it has to be a work-out so hard that I feel like I can’t get through it. It has to be intense and painful for my body in order for my mind to be eased. So, I have that going for me. It’s like I’m Atlas and I have the weight of the world on me and then I do some squats and just toss it; much in the same way that I toss around metaphors.

I can run farther (without stopping!) than I have in about 9 years and when I used to run past the fire station I thought that, for sure, I would see a paramedic come running after me with a defibrillator, but now I just cruise right past and the fire fighters stand outside and cheer for me. That last part may have been a dream, but I’m not sure.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last 2 months. I now know that it’s possible to live in a perpetual state of pain, that I should never go to the gym without my inhaler, and that I’m pretty damn driven when I actually put my mind to something.

Mostly, I’ve learned that drinking my husband’s homemade wine might cause me to make ridiculous, spur-of-the-moment decisions that actually end up benefiting me.  So bottoms up, people. Bottoms up.

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I have been known to worry. A little. Okay, a lot. In all fairness to myself my worrying is not for naught, because I am also graced with really bad luck.

My husband is always quick to tell me to stop with the hand-wringing, already. Sure, it would be nice if he gently smacked my hands when I’m picking at my cuticles or if he would quietly tell me to have a seat if I’m pacing the floor. Instead he says, “Quit freaking out!” and leaves it at that.

Last week, we were getting ready to go to my mom’s house for dinner when my 13 year old daughter came downstairs wearing athletic shorts, a t-shirt, running socks and dressy, black flats.

I wouldn’t want her to have to go upstairs and change, or anything, because OH, THE EFFORT, but I couldn’t just let her walk out the door looking like that. I said, “You can’t wear those shoes with that outfit.”

She looked down and had apparently lost her vision, because she eyed her feet and then asked, “Why not?”

I shook my head. “Because! Do you really want someone to see you like that? What if we get in an accident on the way there?”

My husband countered with his anti-anxiety speech, “Seriously, you’re worried about that? What if I die on the way there!”

And even though no one asked him, my son looked at his dad and said, “Well, then I’d ask Mom to drive.”

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