No, seriously, I said that. Yes, me, who gets winded if she sits up too fast.
Part of my "get the fuck out of here, feels" plan was to start exercising regularly. Not only have I started to out-grow my metabolism (and coincidentally, the only pair of jeans that I own), but downing bottles of wine and an endless supply of greasy, bacony carbs covered in Chik-fil-a sauce (seriously, what White Trash deity twinked that condiment with its little wand? That shit is magical.) was making me feel dumpy, out of control and a bit... amorphous.
The first few sessions were murderous, and I left the gym barely able to walk. But now, surprisingly, after 3 weeks, I'm starting to like it. I like the way my "muscles" radiate between pain and endorphins the next day. I like sweating it out. I like knowing that I'm making some kind of progress, no matter how slow it is. And I like that when I'm there, my brain kinda quiets down and I can enjoy doing something good for myself.
Maybe in the next 10 years I'll look a little less Jabba and a little more Leia. And maybe I won't break a sweat walking up the stairs*.
Tune in next week when I complain about eating healthy. Because the only healthy things I know to eat are frozen Healthy Choice dinners (as my coworker describes them: "that tastes like hot, crunchy water.") or turkey wraps with no dressing (the saddest wrap in the entire world).
|I'm gonna miss you, binge eating.|