This entire process, start to finish, is daunting. Challenging. Overwhelming. Enlightening. Disheartening. Uplifting. Bullshit. The best thing ever. The burden of a lifetime. It is all of those things at any point in time.
Because it’s life. 24 hours a day, in stereo. I can’t just
unzip the costume and pack it away. This
literal weight is on me, until I put forth an effort to remove it. Usually, at that point, my brain will heave a
discontented sigh of “ohhhhhh fuck” because it knows what’s coming. Time to strap into the roller coaster, here
we go.
Oh, those heady early days when I am full of the piss,
vinegar and can-do attitude, Donna Summer singing “this time I know it’s for
reeeeeal” in my head, ready to meal prep, follow an insane workout plan and
just blast this fat right into outer fucking space! Right? RIGHT?!? Yeah, then the early morning alarm stirs me
out of a deep sleep. I see how dark it is outside, and deeply feel the warmth
and comfort of my bed. I contemplate the
logic of getting up and venturing out in the cold, dark world to get to the 24
hour gym that has been supported by my charitable, invisible donor status for
ages, and how I must have temporarily lost my mind when I set that early alarm.
Me? Get up this early? Go out in the dark to go to the gym? Yeah right. I’ll
get mugged. I’ll be exhausted all day. The gym will be filled with early riser
freaks who will stare and constantly judge me while I work out. Why put myself in such a position? Oh, brain.
You idiot.
Then, the bargaining starts. Keep in mind, I’m bargaining
with my comfortable self, and trust me when I say, comfortable me is as crooked
as they come. After a few minutes of guilt tripping my rational self, comfortable
me wins and I decide to workout after work instead of before. That makes more sense. No mugging, no judgmental fit people,
everything will be easy and wonderful.
I float along on this cloud as I start my workday, and I am
PUMPED until around lunch time. Lunch
time is often the tipping point into the slippery slope that is the afternoon.
Oh, the afternoon: graveyard of good ideas. After I’ve eaten my healthy lunch,
and I’m getting through my workload, the clock ticks every second that brings me
closer to the after work gym appointment I brokered in the wee hours of the
morning. I have my gear ready and with me,
all I have to do is go and get it done.
Suddenly, the very idea casts a pall over my existence.
I suddenly believe, with every fibre of my being, that those judgmental fit
people from 4 a.m. will still be at the gym just waiting for me. Waiting to text
each other about my shitty form, my lame outfit and my nerve to be in a gym
when I’m so out of shape. They’ll laugh
their heads off about it in the parking lot. They’ll post photos mocking me on
the secret internet for fit people. It’s all so clear and completely plausible
in my afternoon mind. It just can’t
happen, so, I make the decision to workout at home.
Home, the safe haven, the centre of my universe. The couch won’t judge me. The floor lamp won’t
illuminate all the parts of my body that “need work”. The cat won’t tell me I’m
doing it wrong. Ah home, sanctuary of
safety, nowhere near any sort of danger zone.
For some, that is true. Home workouts are an actual thing
that people do on a regular basis. I admire those people. I have been known to
do a home workout once in a while, but it’s not something I can keep up
consistently. I wish I fully understood
the reason why, but I don’t. I do know
that home is too familiar for me. It’s too comfortable, and it is where my comfy
chair and knitting live. There is a weird time vortex somewhere in my living room
that allows evenings and weekends to slip sideways into the universe of “Oh
wow, it’s how late? Well, there go those plans.”
The truly weird thing about this phenomenon is that I
actually love being at the gym. I love pulling/pushing weight. I love
accomplishing cardio goals. I love training and learning new things. But so
often, I defeat myself before I’m even out of the gate. That defeat is borne of two things: 1) A
lifetime of insecurity and 2) An all-consuming love affair with being lazy.
The lazy. I love it. I’m good at it. So very good at it. I’m
also really good at freaking myself out. So, I can sit in my comfy chair and
lazily freak myself out of going to the gym any day of the week. Then, more
time will have passed where I didn’t make positive choices for my health, and I
will feel shitty all over again. It’s a seemingly endless cycle.
Sometimes, I need a reminder to stop fucking myself over
with the laziness. Writing this out was
one of those times, because until I started this sentence, everything above was
written about a hypothetical “You” instead of the actual “Me”. How’s that for a kick in the ass, eh? Before I started going through and switching
it to be speaking about MY failure freak out, it didn’t hurt. It wasn’t real, I
was simply telling it like it is for the every-person in a similar position to
mine. But not MINE.
Now, it’s mine. I see it. I hear it. I feel it. It’s fast approaching
my lunch time and that afternoon danger zone. My workout gear is in my backpack,
ready to go. Since I work at home, come
3:00 it will be an absolute choice: knitting basket to the left, workout bag to
the right.
Today, there’s a good chance I won’t make the bullshit
choice.
XO
LB
