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QUIT

24 February 2015, 13:30

I am just simmering in cranky today.

DEAR GOD CAN’T I JUST QUIT THE TREADMILL? ONE DAY? PLEASE? I’ve gotten 30 minutes done and I feel like I’m going to vomit. What the blue fucking hell is this living torment? I had decided this morning, since it was colder than Dick Cheney’s black heart that if I hadn’t lost any weight since last scaley time, I was going to skip today. But shore shite, fucking gods of Richard Simmons said, “AHA, this will be hilarious watching her struggle and eventually have a coronary, and be afraid to call 911 because she stinks really bad.” I’m taking a break. I just got 30 more minutes to go. And for some fucked up reason, TODAY is the day I am fitting better into my shorts and I notice that my legs do not resemble turkey drumsticks. So, the OCD kicks in and says “Lookie, progress, and now WHOA MULE, giddyup.” OCD is the damnedest shit in the world. Why can’t I have the kind to where I’m washing my hands a billion times a day or afraid to touch foreign doorknobs?

See. I HAVE to follow these insane arbitrary rules, that I change on the fly if I see that I can make some excuse to get off the treadmill and go watch Dr. Phil instead of killing myself trying to shave off a couple of pounds.

First. I sat down for like an hour, computing all the permutations of net calorie burn in increments of 10 minute spans for running at a 5% incline and a level incline, but once I start an increment, I have to finish it, so if I accidentally trudge along for 26 minutes, I have to listen to Rod Stewart’s “Do you think I’m sexy,” which is about 4 minutes long to finish out that set. BUT. I can only increase sets in 10 minute increments, ONLY if I initial did a complete 20 minute set.

Second. I can’t look at anything that concretely quantifies how much I’ve done, like the minutes past or the little loopy loop thing that shows circuits completed around an imaginary track.

Third. All this weird shit is going through my head for the first 20 or 30 minutes until the endorphins kick in and I start thinking about kittens and pretty trees. The reason why my brain starts calculating on the fly is that its trying to make a deal with the rest of me, “Hey there’s a minute left, you can quit and sit down” or “HMMMMM muffins.”

Even as I’m typing right now, the brain is going, “BOY isn’t this sitting down shit, NICE?”

Yes. I’m going to vomit.

Yes. I cuss a lot.

Fuck you.

Later…

I’M DONE. Yup. That’s me. Endorphin crazy looking, and sweaty. Don’t worry. It’s a different shirt from yesterday.