I hate working out. I hate it.
It is a detestable practice… a reprehensible pastime. It only exists because our society has created in-numerous stationary activities for ourselves and must find ways to balance them out. It’s my own fault, really, for loving food and for being American. Nobody is stopping me from starting a farm, plowing my own fields and catching my own dinner. But since I can barely keep a houseplant alive, least of a whole field of houseplants, what choice do I have? If I’m going to live a life of work to car to couch to bed, I have to fit some cardio in there somewhere so my heart doesn’t give up on me at 40.
“Working out” and I have had a very tumultuous relationship. Because my nature is one of inconsistency and overindulgence, I tend to do losing weight/working out in phases.
Frustration: “Look at you Janelle, you’re so fat. What’s happened to you? You used to work out everyday and now the only workout you do is lifting that cookie to your mouth. You barely even chew, just throw your head back like an alligator. Do something!”
Cray: I kill myself working out every single day, sometimes twice a day, 6 days a week. I deny myself sinful pleasures like ice cream and cheese. I am in beast mode and there is no one who can stop me.
Exhaustion: After an evening of weakness, I realize that, at my core, I am weak. I give up, and console myself that at least I can still get up off the couch, fit in my car, and don’t spill over in airplane seats.
See Phase 1-3.
I’ve concluded that the cycle will not end until I am maggot food. And by the looks of it, those maggots will not go hungry.