Katy McDermott

I’ve been trying to lose weight lately. I cut down on the sugary snacks, reduced my portion sizes, stopped drinking soda, etc. And I was losing – slowly. For a few weeks. Then I hit a stubborn plateau. The combination of that and the example of my newly fitness-focused husband made me face the inevitable: I had to exercise. But first, I needed to counter all my internal arguments, which basically boiled down to “I don’t wanna!”

There are many different ways to work out. The dedicated can go to a gym. The wealthy can hire a personal trainer. The uber-wealthy can hire a personal trainer to come to their house and oversee their workouts in their private gym. The self-motivated can do their own thing, coaching themselves to great results. I don’t fall into any of these categories. Also, the only “free time” I have is from 5:00am to 6:00am on weekdays. (Thankfully, a little later on weekends!) Consequently, I did what so many other busy women do.

I turned to DVDs.

Workout DVDs are actually quite fun. For one thing, you get to curse at the instructor and her 2% body fat – as loudly as your labored breathing will allow – and you don’t have to worry about running into her in the parking lot after the workout. I don’t know about you, but Jillian Michaels (of Biggest Loser fame and the instructor on my “Shredding It With Weights” kettlebell DVD) scares me. And I have bruises on my forearms from the kettlebell…

Jackie Warner (she had a reality show on Bravo called Work Out) claims to be a “trainer to the stars.” Well, if she means Himmler by that, I’ll back her up. Truly, her DVD is torturous. She seems to actively enjoy inflicting pain, which I guess is a good quality in a fitness instructor. Frankly, I prefer “I know it hurts – get over it!” acidity to “You’re doing great – stick with it!” perkiness any day.

Speaking of perkiness, I have a particular workout DVD that I no longer use. It’s not that I can’t do it (although some of the moves are hard-bordering-on-impossible – I use them as rest periods). It’s that the instructor is so incessantly cheerful. While doing the most insanely difficult sequences – honestly, there’s one exercise where she jumps up in the air, arms and legs akimbo, then lands in a squat and immediately kicks to the side – she’s not winded at all. Also, she never sweats. It’s very annoying to my drenched and cynical self.

Then there’s cardio. I use either the treadmill (which recently graduated from “coat closet” status to “actual piece of exercise equipment” status) or follow along with a walking DVD. But on the weekends, I do the whole “nature-girl” thing and either walk or ride my bike. When I walk outside, as on the treadmill, I can use my iPod and headphones – I just have to be careful not to listen to ragtime music or show tunes unless I’m safely incarcerated in our basement. My husband says I’m very “jaunty”…

With the bike, I can’t use the iPod. I have to be cognizant of not a) running over people/animals and b) not getting run over by cars myself. The “Guys and Dolls” soundtrack isn’t conducive to either. My family and I recently went to a lovely park, though. Despite the lack of music, I was captivated by the large, beautiful lake and many birds. We had a picnic afterwards, and I never felt that I deserved a turkey sandwich quite so much.

Of course, just when I feel like I can’t expend another morsel of energy on working out, just when I feel like all I want to do is sleep the heck IN (well, for an extra 45 minutes, anyway), it’s time for Pilates. Lovely, gentle, Pilates. Deceptively difficult Pilates… the instructor’s voice may be quiet, the music may be mellow, but make no mistake – the moves are tough.

Even though I’m not losing weight as fast as I’d like, I should be motivated by the knowledge that I’m getting healthier – my heart, my lungs (and as an ex-smoker, that’s particularly important). But no. What motivates me is <hangs head in shame> workout clothes.

Now there’s a whole other section of department stores – activewear – for me to shop in. And because of the novelty value, I’m like a kid in the proverbial candy store (hey, look, that fabric wicks away sweat! And check it out – yoga tops! And those biking shorts have built-in padding to cushion your butt!)

Oh, yes, I’ve bought some.

But in truth, at the end of the day, what really motivates me is as shallow as clothes, in its way. I just feel pleased with myself once I’ve worked out in the morning. Even for half an hour, and even if I couldn’t do every exercise or had to walk my bike up a particularly steep hill. Regardless, I start the day with a level of self-esteem I’ve never felt before. Sore muscles are a badge of honor. They’re muscles that I’ve used.

My job involves sitting at a desk or sitting in meetings. My passion is writing – another sedentary activity.

Recently, I’ve scheduled a few signings for my latest book.

And with luck, I’ll struggle to pick up a pen.

My husband and I didn’t experience much of the most traumatic event in our nation’s history firsthand. This is as close as we got (I wrote this essay just days after), and it was close enough. God rest the souls of those who lost their lives that day.

We saw the twin towers of the World Trade Center today. Painted on a homemade banner suspended from a highway overpass, they formed the letter “H” in the message “Home of the Brave”. Twenty minutes later, as we crossed the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, we saw the skyline of New York City, forever changed. The cloud of smoke and debris, still visible four days after the attack, drifted toward the Statue of Liberty. Her face was turned toward Ground Zero.

We were driving north from Philadelphia, fueled by rage and sorrow and an e-mail message from the New York City Fire Department, asking for supplies. Everyone I’d spoken to since Tuesday was desperate to help, to do something. Within 36 hours, the idea of a trip to New York had rippled out to family, friends and co-workers, and by Saturday morning we’d gathered over $1,000 worth of supplies for the men and women doing the unimaginable work at the site. 

The list of items they’d requested was as chilling in its way as the nightmare footage that filled the news. Dust masks, flashlights, work gloves and sterile eyewash. Lanterns, emesis basins and biohazard bags.

There was paperwork, of course. We would need a letter of authorization to get near Fire Department Headquarters in Brooklyn, now cordoned off and guarded. The woman I spoke to was sorry she wouldn’t be able to meet us when we came up. She had a funeral to attend, but she counted herself among the lucky ones because her firefighter husband had made it back from the scene alive. In a note on a fax cover sheet, she said that she would now have to go to Mass every Sunday for the rest of her life – that was the bargain she’d made with God if her husband came home.

The day was almost indecently beautiful as we loaded the car for the drive. It seemed impossible to reconcile this soft blue quiet with the video footage shot by a volunteer doctor in the moments after the first collapse – the nuclear winter of soot and debris, the unearthly high-pitched whistling of the firefighters’ locators.

It took four and a half hours to drive from the Philadelphia suburbs to Brooklyn – we spent most of that time sitting in traffic on the highways leading into the city, left lanes closed to all but emergency vehicles. 

We saw the best of America on that drive… a toll collector on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, catching sight of the flag in our window, saying “God bless” as she handed us our change… a beat-up hatchback full of college kids, the windows painted over with messages: “God Bless America,” “Keep the Faith New York,” “Honk If U R Proud To Be American.” We honked, & flew our flag, and exchanged pumped fists with strangers at 70 miles per hour. The closer we got to New York, the more banners we saw on overpasses, defiant slogans hand-lettered on bed sheets. 

The staff was so kind at Fire Department Headquarters. They added our shovels to a pile in the corner of the loading dock, and told us about the firefighters they knew who were missing. Supplies crowded the sorting room… pallets of water and Gatorade donated by corporations… cardboard boxes with the words “towels” and “flashlights” drawn in black magic marker. 

The drive home was quicker. On our way out of Brooklyn, we passed a federal office building, patrolled on each corner by an officer in a bulletproof vest holding a pump-action shotgun.

But we saw a passenger jet as well, gliding peacefully into the Newark evening. 

The next night, walking up to the door of my townhouse, I heard the usual late-summer chirping of dozens of crickets. It made me feel anxious for some reason I couldn’t define. 

And then I realized why.

It sounded exactly like the whistling of the firefighters’ locators in the video from Ground Zero.