Dear Physical Activity,
I hate you.
But, I also love you.
You suck, you hurt. You make me sweaty and gross, take my breath away, make my heart go five hundred miles per minute, you make my body ache for days, and this is starting to sound a lot like sex.
However, from what I’ve heard, sex is pleasurable, you, physical activity, are not.
No sir, you are an asshole and make me want to die.
But I chose you. I do it on purpose. Mostly because I can’t fit into my shorts and it’s almost shorts season.
I don’t want to be hot and dying because the only thing that currently fits me are sweatpants.
There are some perk, to engage in your type of torture.
I get to listen to my music on blast and daydream about my story in epic action scenes.
And, strangely enough, I feel great after engaging. After running a mile.
Because I run. I just run. Make no mistake, I don’t lift or anything.
I like to think of it as literally running away from my problems, except, I’m in my basement, on a treadmill, and not actually going anywhere.
But, still. I feel good. I feel healthy and alive.
Especially while I’m writing this, because on this day (3/6/16 when I’m writing this) I have eaten three scones, an entire bag of gold fish, and three pieces of pizza.
So, yes, running felt good, even if it was torture.
Working out feels good, as much as I hate it.
So, thank you physical fitness. For inspiring me to be physical because that’s the only way I’m going to fit into my summer clothes.
For making me feel like shit which leads to me feeling somewhat invincible.
Here’s to fitness,
And a pitiful mile a week.
Peace and love and pain,