Once upon a time, I wrote:
“Today, I renew my dedication to exercise and self-care. Three months from now I will be fitter, firmer, and able to do more than 2.5 push-ups. Hell, I may even earn killer cheekbones!”
Why do I make such rash declarations? Will I never learn?
I spent my last semester student teaching 40 hours per week, working nights and weekends in a computer lab. It was depressing, and my eating habits became destructive; between the sugary garbage served at school and the sugary garbage in the vending machines at work, I didn’t stand a chance at becoming fitter or firmer. Sadder and wiser, more like.
THEN I fell upon hard times and was unable to find a summer job. The stress created some minor but upsetting physical problems, and I spent much of the summer attempting to sleep through reality. Much Mexican food was consumed.
All that real life can get a girl down.
So a full nine months after I supposedly “renew[ed] my dedication to exercise and self-care” (it’s okay to roll your eyes, I am), I still can’t do “real” push-ups, and my record for “girl” push-ups is a mere 14. My cheekbones are functional, but hardly “killer”— though that was always a long shot.
Time to get back in the saddle.
Mr. Jaunty, his father, and I have been visiting our apartment complex’s tiny gym every morning. It has two treadmills, two exercise bikes, and an all-in-one home gym thingamajig. We stretch, sweat, and come home happy.
Say, ever wondered what I look like in the morning?
Taken immediately after yesterday morning’s workout: observe the lack of makeup, the glasses, the drenched armpits.
This is the face of progress.
Let’s skip brazen declarations this time around and just say it feels great to be exercising again.
C’mon, you know you love my Fivefingers!
Has real life been interfering with your exercise goals?