I hate working out. Hate it. I have no endorphins and the only high I get from exercise is the high amount of expletives I say to myself as a mantra, in tine to my pedaling or the music.
But I do it. Six to seven times a week, alternating between riding the bike for an hour and workout videos which I watch up close on a portable DVD player. I never weigh myself because it would totally discourage me. My daily uniform these days consists of yoga pants and jeans which have fit me for years. At least I’m not gaining weight but the jeans don’t fall down if I don’t wear a belt so the number on the scale can’t be decreasing.
I tell myself I workout for my heart and try not to focus on the weight. But doing something you despise six or seven hours each week would definitely be less painful if I could shrink even a little.
Saturday night we went to a dinner party and I wore dress pants that I used to wear to work three years ago. I don’t know the last time I had them on and was convinced they wouldn’t fit. Even with the regular exercise, the fact is I don’t walk nearly as much as I used to, since I am home most days. Think about how many steps you take in the course of an ordinary day: to your car, to your desk, to lunch, etc. My saving grace is our home has lots of stairs and no bathroom on the main floor.
So Saturday night, as I pulled my dress pants from the closet, I told myself, in a moment of physical disgust, that if the pants didn’t fit I was going to stop the daily workouts. Why bother? My heart may be healthier but who sees my heart???
Wouldn’t you know it, the damn pants fit! And I didn’t even have to lay on the bed to fasten them. Insert high level of expletives here.
O.J. was acquitted. When it comes to working out, I got life.
