“Valerie” and “mornings”. When these two words are uttered in the same sentence, not only is it cringe-worthy, but it fills me with a tiny spark of fear. While I rarely utter the two in the same breath, try as I might, I can’t stop someone else from parting their lips and speaking this unholy evil into existence.

I loathe mornings. Not the entire morning, mind you…just that whole waking up and getting my day started part of the morning. But I’m an adult; I routinely (and successfully) put my big girl bloomers on and tackle every day like I’m supposed to (even when I would much rather be buried under my 700 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets until the smell of bacon gently awakens me).

Most nights, before I slip into a coma-like sleep, I talk to myself. No, my husband doesn’t hear the one-sided conversation I have with myself; I chat away in my head. Within the safe confines of my head, I give myself a pep talk.

“Okay, when that alarm goes off tomorrow, you get your butt outta bed pronto. No lollygagging about, no hitting the snooze button three times, no rolling over and feigning ignorance. No excuses…get up!”

I work from home, so my skewed logic hovers somewhere in the neighborhood of denial: I believe I can get up anytime I damn well please. And, to be honest, I can. However, articles aren’t going to write themselves, research isn’t going to research itself and, most importantly, my body isn’t going to magically morph itself into shape after I’ve gobbled down a fried flounder dinner the night before. Oh, but to dream…

But I digress.

On most evenings, I set my alarm for 7:30 in the morning and, according to my husband, I spring forth from the bed and my feet hit the floor before the alarm stops. Yeah, sometimes. The more likely scenario sees me cringing, sighing heavily and using near-super-human strength to sit upright.

Not this morning.

Quietly, so as not to disturb my sleeping husband, I turned off the alarm at 7:13 before it went off, slid out of bed, suited up for my power walk around our subdivision and slipped out the front door without even disturbing the pooch.

My brisk walk began with Pharrell Williams’s song, Happy, streaming from my fitness staple, my iPod Shuffle, into my earplugs and that set the tone for the rest of the walk. I put it on repeat. The song was what I needed to kick-start my morning exercise . . . the exercise that, in my heart, I really didn’t want to do.

Midlife sometimes sucks. The realization that my body doesn’t behave the way it did when I was in my 20s and 30s is but one of the aggravating nuances of aging. I don’t mind working out, but I don’t try to fool myself by saying things like, “I feel so energized after a good workout!” or “I can’t start my day unless I work out.”

The truth of the matter is I don’t feel energized after a workout. My toes hurt, my legs are wobbly, my calves burn and I’m just flat out tired as hell. And, truth be told, I really can start my day without working out.

Still, I work out because I know that my body will not be forgiving if I didn’t engage in some form of cardio and strength training.

So as Pharrell serenaded me with that funky up-beat tune, my whole demeanor shifted. I swung my arms a little harder, I kept in time to the beat and I sang along off-key. As I waved at passing cars, I grinned like an idiot. I’m guessing my neighbors are used to the waving part. What they likely weren’t prepared for was to see me channeling my inner Ginger Rogers near the guardhouse at the foot of the subdivision. I simply couldn’t help it.

As Gloria Estefan would say, rhythm is gonna get you.

Yeah, the rhythm got me. As the song played on its umpteenth loop, I lost all decorum as the pavement became my stage and I began to dance. I mean I shimmied. What would people say when they saw me? Would they laugh? Would they stare? Would tiny children cower behind their parents in abject fear?

I didn’t care. I didn’t care one bit. I danced.

Several cars drove past me as I cha’d cha’d to the left, shuffled to the right. Most drivers seemed to ignore me, although I’m sure some of there were cutting their eyes in my direction and tsk-tsking my antics. And still, I didn’t care. But I must have been doing something right because a car came down the hill, the driver slowed down and, with his arm dangling out the window, gave me a mighty fist pump—I like to think it was in solidarity—as his two kids giggled in the back seat.

I continued to dance as I slowly made my way back up the slight incline.

I didn’t want to get up this morning and workout but, for me, some form of physical exercise has come to be a necessity. It’s the only way to keep my svelte 52-year old figure. Pharrell Williams was my salvation today. He was the source of my movement . . . even if that movement did cause some to look away in horror. By dancing around in public—in broad daylight, no less—I was doing what I wanted to do. If people wanted to stare, let ‘em stare. I was shaking things up, getting my fitness in, in my way, on my terms.

And so should you. Whatever it takes to get you moving, to get your heart rate pumping, to get you feeling alive . . . do it. Wanna jump rope? Go right ahead. Hula hooping more your style? Hula hoop on, girl! Skipping in your bones? Then skip skip skip to my Lou, whydontcha? If you want to do it, do it.

Today, I was one Happy midlife woman.

How do you shake up your fitness routine? Let’s discuss in the comments.