Dead even
Nothing lost this week, but nothing gained.
If this were my first time at the weight-loss rodeo, I might be discouraged. But it’s not so I am not.
This week was a market correction of sorts because I dropped too much last week, really.
I am, however, going to have to step up my game.
As soon as I finish this post, I am headed to the gym.
I loathe exercise. With the heat of a thousand suns burns my hatred for working up a sweat while my heart beats out of my chest and I gasp for breath.
If I could channel that energy into fat-burning, I would be willow-like. Wispy, even. But I can’t. And I want to be strong, despite the many obstacles that face me when I arrive at the gym.
I will work out slowly and methodically. Still, anguish will follow.
And I have to work tonight, so the fact that even my hair follicles will be in pain while I am trying to form a coherent criticism of a play at an experimental theater makes the idea of setting foot in the gym even less enticing than normal.
And don’t get me started on the fitness-crazed douche bags that look at my fat ass on a treadmill like I don’t belong there, as if I didn’t already know that.
Piss a protein shake on my grave when I’m dead, Mr. Six-Pack-Asshole, since clearly you’re convinced you will outlive me. Until then, turn your smug face back to the mirror where you can continue to admire your veiny, spray-tanned pecs.
Despite all those very valid reasons to stay home and watch “Project Runway” on my DVR, I am going to the gym anyway. Because that’s the only way to become strong enough to enjoy my life.
