Today, I had lunch with my trainer-turned-friend, C, at Rumi, an amazing Persian restaurant down by the Village. I had spent the previous evening, contemplating into the wee hours, trying to figure out the mental trigger that would fire the synapses through my mind, into the joints of my body and move it until I reached my ultimate goal: to be the strongest, leanest, healthiest, most flexible me I can be. That’s why I hired C, to kick my ass into shape. Lunch was an excuse to do some heavy brainstorming.

C and I have been doing quite well for a few months now, but the intensity that I’m looking for isn’t there yet. And it’s not because of her. It’s because of me. It’s ME. It’s my fault that I’d rather eat an ice cream cone than do 30 measly minutes on the ancient elliptical at my gym. It’s my fault that the area underneath my chin wobbles without my permission. It’s my fault I’m not the strongest, leanest, healthiest, most flexible me. And it will be my fault if that never happens.

Despite my creative, motivated, driven, determined self,  I am extremely attracted to structure: lists, schedules, appointed times and detailed do’s and don’ts. This is how I am when I set out to do any kind of project. Organization is what allows me to breathe through the hard times; I know that as long as I follow the formula, checking off each thing systematically, I will get it done, and done well. It’s a wonder I don’t like science and math. (I hate science and math) However, the whole physical goal throws my anal (but adorable) tendencies off balance.

C says changing your body is easy; it’s the disciplining of your mind that’s hard. Damn straight, it’s hard. I blame it on impatience, a characteristic that seems to glide through the blood of almost every 20-something I know. It’s the impatience that fills our stomachs to the brim with an angst for immediate results. The ability to delay gratification is often a sign of emotional and social maturity? Ha. Let's throw that one out the window. I'm plenty mature, but I sure do love me some instant gratification. I don’t know if it’s the haste to live life to the fullest, or the keenness for efficiency, or if our impetuosity is a result of too much cell phone radiation, but if there is one thing I do know, 20-somethings are impatient mother-effers. At least that’s my plea, in the case of the yet-to-be-perfected-physical-being-of-Jenny. But it’s true. Especially in a feat that involves changing your body, instant results are essentially nil. And the worst thing is, just as you can’t take off an abrupt inch from a single workout session, you won’t gain an inch from eating one, two or three pieces of chocolate in one night. Good or bad, signs of physical change love to procrastinate, then pop up one day, like overzealous toast.

So, how am I ever going to reach my goal? Well, it seems that the key is to treat it like every other project I've done. But for me, the even bigger key is to find the motivation spicy enough to push me to eat healthy every day and drag my butt to the gym. So far, the prospects of a fatty liver, a shorter lifespan, more energy, skinny jeans – nothing can make me put down that ice cream cone if I’m in the mood for an ice cream cone. Nothing.

“I need to find a reason, immediate and strong enough, to pick my ass up and avoid sugar and do cardio every day," I told C over our naan bread.

“Your health. That’s important.”

“Yeah, I know. But health is too far in the distant. I can’t see it now. I don’t know how to measure it. I need an incentive, more urgent than someday attaining a perfect body, in order to make me do the things I need to do today, and tomorrow and the next day, until I get there.”

“Well, maybe your goals aren’t big enough.”

“What do you mean?” I wondered. What could be bigger than wanting to achieve the best physical me?

“How about a photo shoot? You could set a date to take a photo shoot in a bathing suit or something.”

“Yeah, I guess. I have something similar to that. I’m planning a trip to NYC in April; I might be performing with the burlesque troupe B is playing in. I want to be comfortable on stage like I was when I used to do a lot of acting.”

“That sounds good. You’ll have to wear something sexy, which is motivating.”

“Definitely. But that’s already a plan I had. And it’s still not working. It hasn’t clicked yet. I need to find an urgency that clicks in my mind.”

Silence. Thinking.

“Why don’t you do the Great Wall Marathon?”

“Huh?” Holy shit. You mean, like, run?

“It’s a 10k marathon, on the Great Wall. You said you wanted to try new things. That would be new.”

“Run a marathon?”

“Yeah. I could train you. It would be fun.”

I look at C, who is grinning from across our spread of hummus, pureed eggplant and white rice with currents and saffron, and I lift my eyebrow.

“Um, okay.”

And that was it. With those two magical words, I found the thing that will catapult me into seriously reaching this goal that I’ve carried around for too long. Charging toward near-physical perfection is too abstract. Training each and every day, for the next two and a half months, in order to run a 10k marathon atop China’s greatest structure is tangible, plausible and hell-yeah do-able.

Top that do-different.

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