I have a feeling that when I say I don't care much for exercise, I am not alone.
I mean, don't get me wrong... I know it's really good for me, I want to maintain asomewhat not-really-even-close pretend healthy body, it's crucial to my well being, and I DO don't want to exist as a couch potato.
But it's SO HARD to motivate myself to exercise. The 30-Day Shred has now become the 90-Day Shred (every third day... you do the math! HA!). It's almost approaching the 120-Day-I-Exercise-Sporadically-Not-Quite-"Shred".
I have a wedding dress I must fit in to, but I hear the Hershey Eggies and Cadbury Mini Eggs calling my name. The Bulk Barn had me on a watch list.
So I decide to mosey on down to a little hole-in-the-wall gym.
It's desolate. It has random tables throughout. It has some ancient gym equipment.
And two recumbent bikes (what, don't judge, a regular bike is NOT a woman's friend. It hurts the junk. There, I said it).
I get my gym gear on. I try to do some Jillian Michaels' warm-up moves by memory. Big muscle-y dudes are watching and judging me. I fail with my memory recall, and half-ass my moves.
I am quite certain I look like I am mildly challenged.
I proceed to the recumbent bike, I get on, adjust the seat.... and find there are no fucking foot straps to hold my feet in.
Seriously?... REALLY?
Who presents so much of a threat to themselves and a gym's insurance policy, that they require restraint-less foot pedals on a bike that doesn't have direct downward gravity on its side?
For once, not me.
For the next 35 minutes, I struggle to keep my feet from flying off the foot pedals.
I was water bottle-less, watching eleventeen year olds silently batting eyes at each other and holding hands on a muted television tuned to MTV, while they pumped 106.1 K-Lite FM radio in the background.
The soundtrack to my workout?
Kissed By A Rose, by Seal.
Christ.
This is why I hate exercising.
That is all.
____
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I mean, don't get me wrong... I know it's really good for me, I want to maintain a
But it's SO HARD to motivate myself to exercise. The 30-Day Shred has now become the 90-Day Shred (every third day... you do the math! HA!). It's almost approaching the 120-Day-I-Exercise-Sporadically-Not-Quite-"Shred".
I have a wedding dress I must fit in to, but I hear the Hershey Eggies and Cadbury Mini Eggs calling my name. The Bulk Barn had me on a watch list.
So I decide to mosey on down to a little hole-in-the-wall gym.
It's desolate. It has random tables throughout. It has some ancient gym equipment.
And two recumbent bikes (what, don't judge, a regular bike is NOT a woman's friend. It hurts the junk. There, I said it).
 |
| NORMAL person recumbent exercise |
I get my gym gear on. I try to do some Jillian Michaels' warm-up moves by memory. Big muscle-y dudes are watching and judging me. I fail with my memory recall, and half-ass my moves.
I am quite certain I look like I am mildly challenged.
 |
| So not PC, but yet, so accurate. |
I proceed to the recumbent bike, I get on, adjust the seat.... and find there are no fucking foot straps to hold my feet in.
Seriously?... REALLY?
Who presents so much of a threat to themselves and a gym's insurance policy, that they require restraint-less foot pedals on a bike that doesn't have direct downward gravity on its side?
For once, not me.
For the next 35 minutes, I struggle to keep my feet from flying off the foot pedals.
I was water bottle-less, watching eleventeen year olds silently batting eyes at each other and holding hands on a muted television tuned to MTV, while they pumped 106.1 K-Lite FM radio in the background.
The soundtrack to my workout?
Kissed By A Rose, by Seal.
Christ.
 |
| With a little more "light hits from the 80s, 90s and today" and a little less cowbell/enthusiasm/interest. And slightly less feathers. |
This is why I hate exercising.
That is all.
____
