Saturday, March 9, 2013

And The War Is On. . .

With my treadmill.  It sits there, staring at me, mocking me, taunting me, daring me to climb on.  That great black, mechanical beast snorts and breathes it's song of evil against dripping fangs and the rattling cogs of torment.  Ok, not really.  It is an inanimate object, and the snorting and fire is all in my head, but it's scary as shit nonetheless.  I know from personal experience, if I just get on the thing, consistently, in a few weeks I will begin to, not only enjoy it, but actually look forward to it.  Those few weeks in the beginning however, will prove to be hell. I know my legs will protest. I know my lungs will feel like they can't take in enough air. I know my heart will beat so fast I feel like it will come through my chest. My feet will hurt. My skin will flush a very unflattering shade of red. I'll sweat. I'll cuss. I will tell myself "Fat ain't so bad" and contemplate throwing in the towel. But I also know I can't do it without him.

He doesn't allow me to use the excuse of "too hot", "too cold", "rainy", "safety" or anything else I can come up. He is here, he is in my bedroom so I don't have to get in my car and drive to the gym. My pictures don't care if I haven't done my hair in a month, so it's not like I have to look for cute gym clothes. My son and husband know where I am at all times so when they can't find something that's right out in the open they can easily come and find me. I can put on dinner, jump on the treadmill, stir the dinner, jump back on the treadmill, and do it all over again.

If I remember correctly, that's the reason I got the thing in the first place and it's exactly the reason I hate it.

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