I only joined the gym because she kept badgering me, and I finally realized that she was (probably subconsciously) finding a way to make sure she had friends and plans during what was almost certainly going to be a difficult year. I don’t like gyms. I’m uncoordinated and I hate classes. Still, for her, I joined the damn gym.

I went with her a few times during my two-week free trial, but I didn’t go even once for the first few weeks after I officially joined – mostly because she wasn’t going because her daughter was in hospice. Then, the very evening Eve died, she texted and asked me to go with her to a class the next day. What could I say? This is why I joined. So I said yes.

The gym isn’t fancy or big. They don’t have weight machines or elliptical machines or anything like that; just real weights, some rowing machines, and some bicycles. I find it completely intimidating. The workout is written on a white board, and it’s generally something I have no idea how to do – dead lifts and overhead presses, for example. There’s a lot of AMRAPs and work to 90% capacity. It took me several sessions to figure out that AMRAP means “as many rounds as possible.”

It’s been eight weeks now, and we’ve mostly gone twice every week. No one gets too worried when she cries, and the workouts are *hard*. Hard is good: I have to focus entirely on my body, to be fully present and aware. There’s not much space for thinking about Eve or anything else. And I’m getting stronger. Tonight, I did 25 overhead presses plus way too many wall balls and 50 hanging knee lifts. Eight weeks ago, that would have been impossible for me.

The gym owner told us that “exercise has always been there” for her when life has been tough. I joked that junk food and the television have always been there for me. But eight weeks in, I’m starting to get it. I’m stronger and my muscles are getting (a very little, middle-aged) definition. I know I still talk too much about Eve’s death and it makes people uncomfortable, but I’m getting better. Still, tonight, when someone asked what had motivated me to join the gym, I worried out loud about having started something good for me because of something so sad. “I wouldn’t worry,” she reassured me, “there are worse ways to deal with grief.” I nodded and did another round of overhead presses with more weight than I’ve used before. I’ll ache tomorrow – in a good way.