Get the Frog Out

My exercise routine has been pretty spotty most of my life. I’ve gone through several cycles of trying different workouts - lifting weights, running, and playing different sports. I tend to be more motivated when there is a ball involved or others are chasing me. If I am running towards a goal, around bases, or charging a net, I seem to focus less on the monotonous and tiring result of - well - moving.

Although I’m a regular spectator at my girl’s events, I don’t seem to have the same level of commitment when it comes to my own activities. I have trouble committing to playing an organized sport multiple times a week, and, sadly, it turns out that playing volleyball once a week doesn’t quite transform me into a chiseled Iron Man. So, a few years ago, after packing on a few pounds and finding myself waking up sore from simple activities like raking leaves, carrying boxes to the basement, or - well - driving a car, I thought I might need to up my workout schedule.

Tonya had been saying how much she enjoyed her workouts at Hoosier Trainer, a local gym in Brownsburg, owned and led by Monica Derhammer. She encouraged me to go with her to give it a try. So I did. I went to a RIPPED class. Since Tonya was attending, I was expecting women to be there too. What I wasn’t expecting was all women. I walked into the gym and immediately felt like a duck out of water - a very green-headed mallard duck among the brown, black, and blond headed ducks. I looked around the gym hoping to see another green head - more men - so I could more easily blend into the crowd. I finally spotted a guy in the back, but he also had this look on his face that made me think he too had followed another bird to the place or had landed in this pond by mistake.

But, I decided to man up and give it a shot. Following Tonya’s directions, I grabbed a mat and set of barbells and tried to hide in the back the best that I could. Monica turned on the music and started us with some leg stretches, quickly moving side-to-side. I followed along the best I could mimicking Monica’s moves. We went from stretches, to squads, bicep lunges, tricep kickbacks, lateral shoulder raises, and a host of other moves that I was learning for the first time. And, although I had first silently thought that the weights that I grabbed would be too light for me, I quickly realized that after the 150 reps we were doing, even the weight of my arms felt heavy. I was huffing and puffing and could feel my muscles aching and begging me to quick. I looked at the clock wondering if the 50-minute workout was almost over, only to see that we were only 10 minutes into the workout.

As I struggled to keep up, I started to realize how this class got its name. I had originally thought RIPPED was given its name because it was a class that would give me greater muscle definition. You know, it would make me ripped. I then read that RIPPED was really an acronym for Resistance, Interval, Power, Plyometrics, Endurance, and Diet. But as I struggled through a set of burpees trying to catch my breath, I realized that it was more likely an abbreviation for all those that died trying this insane workout. They were R.I.P.’ed alright, as in Resting In Peace.

But, I managed to keep going. Each time I thought I was about to crack, Monica would shout with encouragement that we just had a couple more. So, I would convince myself to do another couple more. And when I was sure I was done, she would switch to something else. So, for example, when I was ready to die from burpees, we would move to side kicks. And right when I was ready to call it quits on side kicks, she would transition to something else, like mountain climbers.

It wasn’t just Monica’s encouragement that kept me moving, it was the commitment of all the others in the class. Sure, there was a good part of me that didn’t want to just be embarrassed for quitting, but it was more than that. I felt like if others could do it, surely I could too. And, finally, even though my muscles were in agony, the reps went to the rhythm and counts of the upbeat music. There were brief moments when we were all shuffling left and right to the music that I thought we must look like a bad MC Hammer music video. Even though my body felt like an old man, my brain felt like a teenager on a dance floor wanting to keep jamming to the music.

So, by the end, my T-shirt was wet with sweat. My arms quivered returning the mat and my legs wobbled just stepping off the sidewalk. I felt completely exhausted. Although I was out of step a good portion of the time and there were women using heavier weights than me making it look easy and I was forced to skip some reps to take a few extra breaths, I felt proud and accomplished that I had completed the class - certainly not perfectly - but without completely quitting or dying.

Even though I woke up sore the next day, after a few days passed, I did find myself hoping to go back. Our family schedule made it difficult for Tonya and me to go at the same time. The girls needed one of us to shuttle them to their activities, so we decided to alternate our schedules, with Tonya going some evenings and me going some evenings. I was glad to be returning, but I also felt even more uncomfortable showing up without Tonya. I wanted to wear a T-shirt that said, “I’m not a creeper. I just like the workout.”

Nonetheless, I showed up solo. I kept my head down and made my way to the back of the room trying to be as stealth-like as possible. In the workout space, there is a large side garage door that Monica will leave open on nicer days. It was raining outside, but the cool breeze felt nice. I stood with my mat and weights quietly in the back ready for the music to begin. But right as the music began and Monica started counting our first set of squats, a young lady came up to me from behind and flatly said, “Excuse me. Could you get the F-- out?"

To be fair, I wasn’t certain that the F word that she used rhymed with “duck.” However, I was pretty sure the message was the same: she was wanting me to leave. A mixture of embarrassment and resentment began to flood my brain. Maybe I should have worn the “Not a creeper” T-Shirt. Or, maybe this workout truly was exclusive for women. Maybe it was no different than me stepping into the wrong restroom. My resentment quickly was replaced by genuine confusion. I turned and looked at her expression. She was smiling. I was relieved, but bewildered. “Excuse me?” I finally muttered hoping that I did not understand her correctly.

“Can you get the frog out?” She repeated more clearly with the smile still on her face.

Although I didn’t have time to search the expression on urban dictionary from my phone, I just assumed “get the frog out” was equal to “get the flip out” - a slightly softer and more playful way of asking me to - well - exit. I stood there completely confused with how to respond. Surely she must be joking. She clearly was not angry with me, but why was she asking me to leave. So, I smiled and just repeated the question. “You want me to get the frog out?”

“Yes,” She said with a smile again, but this time she pointed to the floor along the back wall.

Surprisingly, a small frog was bouncing around in the back of the room. Never have I felt such pleasure of seeing a little critter in my line of vision. He was just playfully hopping around - either scared or confused. He wasn’t particularly good at keeping rhythm to the music and wasn’t even trying to follow Monica’s lead with the leg squats.

“Sure.” I said, feeling a bit like a fireman ready to storm a fiery building, uh or a minimal, ready to retrieve a small kitten from a tree. I quickly approached the frog ready to confront his shenanigans without hesitation. His random bouncing from side to side stopped and he froze along the wall, pretending to be just decoration. As I bent down to grab him, he took a giant leap forward escaping my grasp. He bounced right and back left, I quickly followed him, bent down, and this time I scooped him up with my hands.

I wanted to give him a pep talk before I set him free, but also was still trying not to be the weird guy. So, I walked out of the garage door and without any ceremony or much fanfare set him on the ground and watched him quickly hop away thinking, “Sorry little guy. It was either you or me that would have to go.”

Most didn’t even notice all this activity unfolding in the back of the gym, but as I walked back into the gym, a couple of the ladies quietly clapped. The young lady that had brought the frog to my attention added in an affirming voice, “You looked like someone that could handle a frog.”

My chest swelled with pride as if I had sleighed a dragon to protect Monica’s kingdom and all her loyal people. I still felt a little uncomfortable being one of the only guys in a gym full of women. My timing and rhythm in the workouts definitely needed some work. And, I certainly had a long way to go to get in shape as the others in the class. But, I was someone that could redirect an adrift amphibian. I was the guy that could catch a frog! I had faced my admission test and had passed.

I have continued my workouts at Hoosier Trainer now for the last few years. I’m not as regular of an attendee as I would like to be, but I usually get there a couple times a week and always feel better when I go. I also feel a little less like an odd duck in a strange pond. I've gotten to know some of the members, like Jim Spears (one of the other green headed ducks) that know about my health issues and have been incredibly encouraging. And, then there is the beautiful soul, Brenda Schindler, who greets me at the door with a big smile and warm welcoming “hello” and “so glad to see you.” And, even when I have my bad days, I love that Monica is there to  push me and motivate me, but never makes me feel judged.

After my diagnosis with stage 4 gastric cancer, I wondered if I would go back. After my first round of chemo, I felt so terrible that my “workout” consisted of me walking to my kitchen from my bedroom. I wondered if it was the beginning of my end. I wondered if my health would continue to deteriorate and simply not have the strength to continue. What I found surprising is how much I missed Monica’s classes - not just the physical benefits that it gave me, but the emotional and mental boost that I would feel each time I went.

So, even as I was continuing my rounds of chemo, I started going again. The neuropathy in my hands and feet made it harder. The pressure and twinges in my stomach would make me pause at times, but pushing through it seemed to actually help me accept the discomfort. I tired more quickly than before, but it still had a way of energizing me the next day. It became therapy for me - a way for me to feel alive, a way to struggle, but heal. It wasn’t a way to mask the pain, but a way to lean into discomfort and aches and to mindfully set it aside or fully feel it.

What I have realized is that my workouts are no longer about others. After my diagnosis, I started thinking less about what others may be thinking. Being embarrassed for being out of rhythm, out of step, or the green-headed mallard really suddenly seemed rather insignificant. I wasn’t there to impress anyone. I was there for me. I wanted to become a better version of myself. And, I certainly still had plenty of room for improvement - not just in my physical health but in all my personal qualities.

The same is true for others working on their own self-improvement - whether that is to become healthier physically, mentally, or emotionally. It is ridiculous that we often feel so compelled to compare ourselves against others. Not only do we bring our individual, special body type into a room, we each bring our own unique experiences, challenges, and yes, suffering. Whether we are fit or flabby, old or young, tall or short, male or female, have lived an easy life or difficult life, we too often try to fit in and compare ourselves to others even though their life story is often completely different than our own. Instead, we should take a moment each day to celebrate what makes us different and strive to simply be a better version of ourselves.

Our uniqueness doesn’t make us the exception to a group; it makes us exceptional in a group. And when it comes to working out - and life in general - the measure that matters most isn’t our waistline, the size of our biceps, or all the baggage we bring into a room. What matters most is our tenacity to struggle and sweat, our eagerness to root each other on to do one more rep, our joy from dancing with others, our strength to let go of our fears and insecurities, and our courage to confront the obstacles in our lives and our fortitude to - when necessary - get the frog out!