I workout. I workout to maintain a semblance of physical fitness. I’d lie if I said it was all about health, wellness and endurance. I’m vain, and I don’t want my butt to jiggle in leggings. Which, by the way, I love leggings. I bought a pair of leopard print ones that channel my inner Peg Bundy. They’re pretty awesome.
I did a post about driving and an example of random thoughts I have on any given commute. Well, this is a post about random thoughts that I have before, during and post workout. Here goes:
I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go. I’ll have one more cup of coffee and then I’m ready. Ugh, I think my muscle is kind of pulled. This coffee is delicious. Perhaps one more rest day won’t hurt? No, no, I have a high school reunion coming up.
It’s off to the gym and the dreaded parking lot. Why in bloody hell do you insist on trying to park as close as possible to the front door when you are going to exercise? Oh my God, you do not have to run me over to get the space.
I’m inside, now I have to swipe this membership card of me, the one that looks almost as bad as my driver’s license.
I’m ready, let’s do this
Inevitably, the female in me starts to look around at other women working out so I can self loathe some more by making irrational comparisons…..
The View is apparently the only thing on TV for the first four hours of the day, damn you “Baba Wawa”.
Perhaps some music? I forgot to charge my iPod, and my headphones appear to have been tied in knots by boy scouts. Audible sigh of frustration.
What the hell are these hens clucking about? It’s like an hour of who can talk over who the loudest about menopause.
There are treadmills in Catholic hell ( their version of hell seems pretty shitty). I’m sure of it, reserved for the most wicked of souls.
I’m finally done, I hurt everywhere, I’m covered in sweat, and I stink. I’m gonna look like a stone cold fox in my leopard print leggings.
I’m getting dressed in the locker room, and some of these women refuse to put clothing on. They complete their entire morning routine naked, as if they were home. I mean it’s cool, whatever, but bending over to blow dry your hair…not flattering ma’am. Now then, I imagine the men’s locker room looks like this:
Satisfied with these mental images and my extensive knowledge of menfolk, I leave. I feel accomplished and powerful, like an extreme couponer. I will start the madness over again tomorrow. Good day.