I haven’t been to the gym for over two weeks.
A slight matter of being counter-productive. A bit snooty. Passive-aggressive, even. Yes, towards the gym. Odd, I know.
You see, I need to go the gym, for a number of reasons: I’m a chubster; there’s a history of heart issues in my mother’s side of the family; and, for general care of my mental health and overall wellbeing.
But, despite sweating and puffing away on treadmills and x-trainers, pumping weights and kick-arse efforts at mountain-climbers, not a single kilo is ever dropped. Sure, alcohol intake may have something to do with it, but please, I don’t need to hear admonitions or advice.
Also, my body always hurts! My feet are always sore, so too my back, hips and the ITB muscle. I wouldn’t mind working through the soreness if I was dropping a kilo or two each week.
So, in a child-like show of the huffs, I turned my back on the gym.
And then, and then…I realised how silly I was behaving. I forced myself to go today. My goodness the walk to the gym was fraught; a walk of shame, a walk where I almost turned for home after every four or five steps, a walk oscillating with negative and positive self-talk
But I made it.
I came home feeling revived, alive. But in need of water to quench my thirst.