It's African hot outside. How is a person supposed to work out when it's Mojo hot? There are those who find pleasure in the workout, though. Masochist? Sadistic? What is that word for self-torture-ers?
Me? Not so much.
Along about Spring every year I give myself a stern talking to. Sharon, we have to shape up. Summer is coming. Do the math, girl! Fat thighs +high temps + friction= 'been in the saddle all week' walking. Not going to do it this year.
And so I exercise for at least a week. Hard!
But then disaster will strike. Call it water weight. Call it too much sodium intake or say I'm building muscle. Whatever you call it, the scales say "Your weight is up three pounds, Chubby."
3 pounds! How can it be up? I have been working out. I fell to my knees yesterday during the workout, begging God to just kill me. It would have been more merciful than working out with Billy. And now this!
So, I take it for what it is...a sign.
It's a sign from above that I shouldn't be working out. I should love myself in this jelly-fish gelatinous blob I call a body. A sign that if I keep pushing my fat to work that hard I will have an early death. And who knows? By working myself so hard to keep from having a heart attack, I might actually provoke one, right?
So I quit. (Safety first after all!)
Then, out of nowhere, the temperatures soar to Hell-highs. Pavement starts melting. I start sweating. And then...then...I have to walk! I have to walk to the mailbox every day. At least 50 steps and then a painful climb back up the hill to my porch. The old thighs greet one another with hugs of joy. They hold hands all the way home, rubbing and catching up.
The next day will find me walking all sprawl-legged and hunting the cornstarch, wishing fervently I had kept up the exercise routine that was going to kill me.
Solutions? Well, just so happens I have one.
I figure bouncing on and off of the diet wagon is as good an exercise as any--and it is one exercise that I am good at!
I will let you know how it works out.