I hate the gym
And, my Zumba sessions aside, I hate every second of it. Every. Single. Solitary. Nasty. Second. Hate it. Hate it.
I hate the pain. I hate pushing myself. I hate punishing myself. I hate getting up early Saturday mornings. I hate having to spend so many hours among grunting rude sweaty men who leave their 45 pound weights behind for me to remove. I hate having to wear brief clothing that shows the extra 2 pounds I gained from the popcorn. I hate it all. It all feels so masochistic.
But I hate the alternative more. I hate the thought of getting flabby and rolly. I hate the thought of not being able to run up stairs, or a mountainside, or keeping up with folks 20 years younger on a hike. I hate the thought of cholesterol and diabetes, of size 10 and flabby arms. I hate the thought of getting broader as I get older – I refuse to get broader or fatter or slower or jiggly. Refuse.
I love the light in my face, the twinkle in my eyes, the muscles that show on my shoulders and arms when I wear a sleeveless dress (and notice that other women my age can’t wear sleeveless), my flat abs, my quick step. I never get sick. I am never sluggish or sleepy or lazy. I’m vibrant. I shine. I think and act quickly and clearly. And it’s mostly from the gym.
And so I go to the gym religeously. The alternative is far worse.