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| 06/01/2011 |
It feels good to be working out again, and I mean actually working out. The good stuff, like when you sweat and feel nauseous, when joints burn and tendons rip. You know, I'm not sure how much of that is suppose to happen, but it's good to be back in the thick of it regardless. My leg and lower back have healed up nicely and today's hardcore workout didn't cause aftershocks of hellish pain to rush up my right thigh, so that's a plus. I took it as a sign that I'll be good for another hardcore workout tomorrow, and if the same results persist, the next day,
Because I'm a fan of pushing my luck.
It's weird to think that a few months ago working out seemed like something those people did. Oh you know those people, the ones who wear windbreakers and neon shoes. The ones who equip strange health gadgetry to their wrists, waists, or elbows and check them with an almost religious conviction while jogging in place at a red light. Their fanny packs are armed with pepper spray and ritual components. Because they're a cult right? Right. (actually I still believe this is true, just check youtube)
These people bear a striking resemblance to wrestlers and I think it's because of the stretchy clothing and bright colors.
I'm a clear pink visor and headband away from understanding these people. I'm all up in their world and shit, I totally get working out, and like it. It feels good to exercise, there's something about it that is likely already explained on a scientific level that just makes you feel kick-ass. It's also something that everyone everywhere, no your education, race, or social clase, agrees is an essential part of good living.
It's a prereq for being Awesome.
So why was it so hard to start? I remember feeling so ashamed that I couldn't even begin the work out process, and of course, I'd just bother with it tomorrow. The rare occurrences when I did take a walk around the neighborhood, or use Wii Fit, I'd get so discouraged I'd just stop working out completely for months at a time. I couldn't take myself seriously. It felt like a part of me was floating out of body and laughing at my tubby ass as I waddled around in long circles in cheap sneakers and a ipod.
On some level it felt like I wasn't really working out, I was doing a comedy routine. Skinny and fit people jog, James Stiver should be parked on a couch playing video games making bitter (but funny) jokes about those people.
It use to be so easy to make excuses and do nothing. I'd rationalize being lazy by saying I'm tired from work and have no time. That was then and yes I probably still look ridiculously even now as I huff and puff from a relatively short jog, but frankly I don't give a crap. Every time I see a fat man/woman jogging outside now I root them on now.
They're doing something about it, and you have to start somewhere.
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