It’s no secret to those who know me that I’m pretty accomplished at starting and stopping in the exercise department. It goes kind of like this: When I’m committed, I am committed. And when I’m over it, I am over it — like no desire, no motivation, no go. When I say I’m gonna run a half-marathon, I do it. I train like crazy, I don’t slack, and I run a half-marathon — no walking, because that would defeat the purpose of running a half-marathon. Get my point? I’m obsessive about my fitness feats when I’ve got a fire in my belly. And when the flame flickers out, I’m done.
Now, I’m not referring to total retirement here. I’m talking maybe a week or two of ditching, and then I make a comeback. It’s usually the guilt that gets to me, because, yes, exercise is good for everyone, but it’s extra important for me — stats say I can cut my chance of breast cancer recurrence by 50% with just 5 hours of strenuous movement per week, and it’s no mistake that my resting heart rate is low, and I can fit into my clothing of choice. I’d be a fool to abandon workouts for good. Well, if I want to continue living (and wearing my fancy new blue jeans), which I do.
It had been about a week of slouching when I woke up this morning and decided, Enough! Out to my garage treadmill I marched (I prefer the great outdoors, but it was pouring rain), and I spent an hour running, walking, and catching up on day-after Golden Globes commentary. Roughly 5 miles and 500 calories later, I felt so much better. Here’s the thing: I have never ever, ever, ever completed a workout and regretted it.
Do I regret skipping one?
Heck yea. And that’s why I’m back at it.
Well, for now, anyway.