I suppose I don’t really hate the gym itself, but everything that the gym represents in my life.
I got on the scale last night when I first changed into my workout clothes and caught my breath. Seriously?! How could I be ahem weight when I go to the gym all the time? Really?!?
I could work through the oft-told lies (which are maybe truths, but I don’t feel like they are right now). You know:
- Muscle weights more than fat.
- You weigh more at the end of the day than the beginning.
- Weight fluctuates and isn’t a good indicator of anything.
What I know is that I weigh more than I have in some time and I’m mad about it. This is the whole reason I go to the gym and I don’t feel it’s paying off the way I want it to.
If I have to have a pseudo-early pregnancy pot belly, can’t I at least be really pregnant to explain it away? If I can’t get rid of my thunder thighs, is it too much to ask that I be given some way-cool super-power to go with them, like the ability to shoot lightening out of my eyes?
The gym reminds me of my failings in my figure, and I hate it for that. This anger will be my motivation tonight as I push, lift, strain and sweat to battle against what genetics has handed me.