I Love The Gym
Mind over matter, or matter over mind? If I tell myself enough "I love the gym"- will it become true? Can I convince myself that sweating on an uphill incline squeezed between the Guido to my left and Malibu Barbie on my right is anything less than thrilling? Can I ignore the driblets of sweat that sneak into my eye sockets and make me half blind as I climb up that invisible hill? I'm really unsure. And I am proud that I drag my reluctant butt (which is looking nicer and nicer with each squat, by the by) into said gym. The gym attendents kinda' know me by name (or rather, by the ever-so-sad look on my face as I enter into the gates of bench-pressing Hell). And though I am reluctant, I am obedient in my routine these days but I can't help but wonder: "When will I learn to love coming to the gym?" I seek out eye candy, which amuses my husband just a little (definitely not a lot). Because eye candy at least gives you something to gawk at. ...