Three days in a row. I’ve managed to drag myself into the weight room. Monday and this morning, legs and abs. Tuesday arms. I’m feeling pretty good.
Yah, I can say that now. Now that I’m done for the day. But getting myself in there is h.a.r.d. I swear I start talking myself out of it the minute I climb out of bed. Busy day. Lot’s to do. Don’t really feel all that good. Ate healthy yesterday so I don’t really need to. Sick and tired of it. I’ll never look like forty again so why bother. I’ll do it tonight when I get home from work. I’m good enough for a sixty year old. I promise I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll do it twice tomorrow!
I should know better by now. I can’t trust myself!
Tomorrow comes and I don’t feel any more like exercising than I did today. Gone are the days when I looked forward to every workout. Gone are the days when the hope of an endorphin high was enough to get me in there at 5:30 every morning.
So right now I have to depend on shear will power. And I practically have to bully myself to do it. But if that’s what it takes, I’m OK with it. I can bully myself. I have to remind myself what it felt like twenty pounds heavier. I have to remind myself what those size 34 pants looked like. I have to remind myself about my flag-waving arms when I lead the music in RS. I have to remind myself what my thighs and stomach looked like when I climbed out of the shower or sat on the you-know-what. YIKES. Enough to make a grown woman run, not walk, down the sports hallway and into the weight room. [That’s my cardio! and then I’m all ready to pump my 4 X 20’s.] So, yup, I’m a bully! Because when I’m done, when I turn off the lights, walk out and shut the door, I feel great! I feel mildly energized — not totally wiped out.
I’m more tired before I exercise than I am twenty minutes later.
And you must know by now how I love irony!
[143 this morning.]