I haven’t been to the gym in two months.
Who fucking cares, Christa?, is probably what you’re thinking and you’re right. In the grand scheme of things, who cares how I get my exercise? I care, obviously but something has given me the fear and I haven’t worked out in a room full of other sweaty folk in ages.
I want to get back into it but the mornings are shivery and being in bed is so glorious, how am I honestly supposed to fight that? Plus, I’m busy doing stuff. Who has a spare 90 minutes to walk in one spot trying not to make eye contact with the dude next to them?
My deal with myself was to start going back in October. We’re four days in and I’m still not even remotely interested. I’ve gone out of my way to walk my 10,000 steps a day and tomorrow I swear I’ll walk through the door of The Gym but I can’t think of anything more boring. Yet, I miss that feeling, the one health nuts bang on about: the endorphins, innit?
So, consider me starting off lightly back on the track I want to be on. I don’t want to be as lazy as I have been, cosy though it’s been. I don’t give a fuck about skinny which is handy as I’ve never been that, but I wouldn’t mind legs like lead pipes and buns of steel…