I’ve recently (and I mean very recently) stumbled my way back into what can loosely be called an exercise routine. I used to claim Ah dad’s level of commitment. I was a card swiping member of the YMCA and I won’t lie, that workout time literally saved my sanity when my kids were toddlers. Childcare so I can sweat out my aggressions plus a youngun free shower? Yes, please.
Life interfered, though. Health problems derailed me. Then we moved almost thirty minutes away from the Y which meant an Official Workout would involve a very intentional one hour round-trip outing. Umm…not so much. I’m still not making that trek in to the Y, but I’ve found I can get what I need out of thirty minutes at the house. It’s amazing what putting a sports bra on first thing in the morning will do for a girl.
But I digress.
“Yes I’m a member. Of a gym. Humans who obviously doesn’t have a life. Some might even say I belong to a weird cult who gets up every morning and worship the gods of fitness by offerings of sweat and fat, generated by too much tofu, kale, tuna, brocolli and all other tasty treats…
The truth is that I need this moderate commitment to fitness if only to prevent me from killing some of my coworkers with a stapler. Or a computer screen. Or my frigging SUV. It’s my therapy.”