Fatigued and slightly nauseated. (Probably the hormonal shifts of perimenopause, or approaching illness. I should rest.)
I didn’t really eat that much this week.
I only had two servings of ice cream last night instead of four.
Forgot sneakers.
Forgot socks.
Forgot water bottle.
Forgot that little thing to hold my hair back. (Who wants a sweaty neck?)
Walking from my classroom to the office and back once today probably qualifies as cardio.
Lifting my kid into the car seat this morning definitely qualifies as weight training.
Other people at gym.
Fox News on at gym.
Smells weird.
Other people might look at me.
Does it really, in the grand scheme of things, matter? We’re all going to die anyway.
I’ll skip dessert tonight.
Men don’t like skinny bitches. Neither do fat bitches.
Husband’s vows said “in fitness or in fatness.” (I think. Have to go back and watch the wedding video.)
“A matronly figure” is an honorific term. Right?
Whatever. The top is the best part of the muffin.
I need time to write.
I need time to sleep.
Used up all my energy dealing with stupid people.
Coping with stress through exercise is unnatural and morally reprehensible and I should go home and eat a cake and fall asleep as the good Lord intended.
Treadmill and elliptical machines disturbingly symbolic of futility of human existence.
Jesus didn’t work out. Neither did Mother Theresa.
I can afford to buy new pants, but I won’t get this 45 minutes of my life back.
