I hate working out. We all do, right? (That’s what I tell myself.)
Well, this morning I joined my wife and our puppy, Beckett, on a 3-mile run. Ohmygodiamgoingtodie.
Actually I feel pretty good about doing it. Usually I hate working out for three big reasons.
1. I get bored. No audio book or iPhone-sized movie keeps me occupied enough to stave off boredom for long. That’s because of resistance, of course, who is an evil bitch. It’s also because …
2. I always feel like I should be doing something else. Working out has long-term pay-offs, but few short term gains, so it’s difficult not to worry about the deadline that’s only 3 hours away when I’m repeatedly picking-up those doumbfounding hunks of metal which have no purpose other than to be picked-up. It’s rare that I don’t have something on my GTD list that doesn’t feel more pressing.
3. That level of mental physical breakdown is not meant to be shared with the world. It’s taken me almost 10 years of getting comfortable with my wife to allow me to finally look like a wimp and an idiot in front of her like I did this morning. And I was still really embarrassed. There’s no way I’m doing that at a gym, in front of total strangers, on anything that resembles a regular basis. (That’s resistance talking, too, of course.)
But there was some reward this morning. Maybe it was because Acacia said, “good job” in her second-least patronizing voice. Maybe it was because it’s a really sunny day and it felt good to combat any traces of seasonal affective disorder that may be still lingering from February.
Or maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Is that true?
I don’t believe it.