Every morning, my father got up early, dominated our single bathroom with showering and shaving and then emerged, wearing an undershirt and his work slacks, to do his morning exercises.
He did these exercises in the living room, 20 of each. First, knee bends, then jumping jacks, the coins in his pockets jingling nicely, then sit-ups and push-ups.
Sometimes I would get up early and watch him exercise. This was allowed, as long as I did not talk. I loved seeing the rhythm of my father’s body, pushing up and away from the floor. Except for summer time at the pool, that was the only time I saw my father’s arms and the underneath quietness of my father’s strength.
Right after I got married, my now ex-husband was drafted. We were ripped away from each other by basic training. The first time I was allowed to visit him, I wandered onto the base and found him in a line of shaven recruits, standing at attention.
“Permission to see my wife, sir,” he said to his sergeant.
“Drop and do 50.”
He dropped. We hadn’t seen each other in three weeks. We were starved for love and sex. I watched him, in his khaki uniform, his buzzed haircut, the sweat building on his face, as he did a fast 50 so we could steal away for a couple hours. I felt like he had handed me a bouquet of daisies–50 push-ups, just for me.
And so, the push-up became a symbol of strength and determination. I never thought about doing one, for the exercise seemed a masculine domain. Then several months ago, I was at the health club and noticed a woman next to the rack of free weights, rhythmically doing push-ups.
I watched, mesmerized by her strength and form. Suddenly, I wanted to truly become my father’s daughter: I wanted to do a push-up.
Instinctively, I knew better than to go public with my desire. That night at home, I asked Ron, the man in my life, to help me “assume the position.” My arms were already shaking when I began to lower myself to the ground. I got about three inches from the rug and collapsed.
“I can’t do it,” I told Ron, feeling embarrassed.
“It’s easy,” he said. “You just get down like this.” He demonstrated the correct position. “Now press up and down, with your back straight, your head forward. You want your chin to almost touch the ground.” I watched as Ron, who seldom lifted anything heavier than a can of gourmet salmon, did 20 great-looking push-ups.
I put my hands on my hips. “How did you do that?” I demanded.
Ron shrugged. “It’s just something left over from my Air Force days.”
His Air Force days were 30 years ago. I bit my lip to keep from protesting the unfairness of his strength.
“Do the women’s version,” he advised. “It’s just as good for you.”
I knelt and pushed up from my knees. Perhaps it did build the same arm and shoulder muscles, but it didn’t have the same flair. More important, I didn’t like the idea of being on my hands and knees.
When I was alone, I tried again. I had to laugh as I splatted onto the floor. Each day, I tried again and again and finally, with shaky arms and dubious form, I did a single push-up. I was thrilled!
“I want to do 10,” I told Ron, after I had proudly performed three push-ups. “What do you think? Am I doing it right?”
“Well, your forehead should really come down to the ground,” he said. “You could have your back straighter.” He realigned my body. The moment I started to lower, my arms wobbled, my back bowed and my stomach drooped.
I decided not to worry about my form. “You can do this,” I whispered to myself. Every time I did a push-up, I felt powerful and strong. Even though I was accomplishing other things in my life and career, this was the thing I was proudest of.
“Want to watch me do my push-ups?” I would say to my daughters, my father, Ron and my friends.
Now, on a good day I can do 12. My form is better. Just last night, my chin hovered somewhere near the ground, just the way it’s supposed to. It was definitely a moment.
As my arms get stronger and have more definition, so do I. I like the image of myself as a woman pushing herself up from the floor, a woman raising herself high with her own arms. A woman unashamed of not getting it right and laughing as she tries again.
