I am currently riding (dragging alongside?) the fitness train again (a ride I may have taken once or twice before). I hopped back
on sometime last July when I realized I couldn’t get my ring to come off my
finger anymore. Shit happens when a good portion of your day requires deskwork…and
also when you’re really into donuts. To counteract this I decided to become
super into fitness (so still into donuts, but super into fitness, because this is how we COMPROMISE, OKAY). And
by super into, I basically mean
during business hours, because I guess that’s all I’ve got in the willpower
tank.
This goes one of two ways.
Way 1: I wake up and bust out a round of high-intensity
interval training followed by a breakfast full of words like protein and fiber,
further mixed with many green things. I then saunter into work feeling
extremely self-satisfied, pretending that every time I open a door, the song “I
woke up in beast mode” precedes my entrance like a pro UFC fighter. I barely
manage to restrain myself from instagramming some kale while simultaneously
informing everyone around me that I busted out a few one-armed burpees before 9
am. #obnoxious
Way 2: I attend a Les Mills GRIT class around 5 pm. If you
don’t know what this is, here’s a quick primer: for 30 grueling, non-effing-stop
minutes, you do insane things that raise your heart rate to the level of zebra-versus-lion-on-the-open-savannah. For example, sometimes you will have to
jump down into a burpee, throw down a pushup, jump back up, then jump into the
air until your feet touch your butt. You then continue this series of movements
until an entire minute has passed, at which point you are allowed 15 seconds of
“rest” until the next move. So I get through 30 minutes of this madness, shake
my head like an animal to shed a liter or so of sweat, then walk out the room (that’s
right, not out OF the room, but OUT THE ROOM) wearing my bright red face and
sweat-soaked shirt like badges. In my world, Fat Joe is busting out the song
“All the way up” (you know, from the Mountain Dew commercial) as I walk in
slo-mo through the gym, turning heads as I go, occasionally stopping to body
check a nearby weight lifter (where does she live? ALL THE WAY UP). In everyone
else’s world, there is probably just concern that the girl walking past with a
little foam on her mouth might collapse shortly if she doesn’t get that
breathing under control. It’s all about perception.
Whichever of these ways prevails, the overall feeling of badassery reigns
supreme until it hits approximately 6:00. From 9 to 5ish I’m declining donuts
left and right, popping almonds while I smugly survey all the chumps who ate out for
lunch, throwing back blueberries and slathering green peppers in hummus while I jog in place (okay I don't really jog in place). But
then the clock hits 6, and to the great satisfaction of the aforementioned chumps
(because god knows that people on the exercise plus vegetable train can be annoying af), the
beast inside of me awakens. It starts dragging me, step by step by sideways
glance, toward the vending machine, the leftover donuts, the velveeta queso
across the street from my office.
It. Is. Savage.
I try to be zen about it.
I tell myself: ENOUGH. Your body is a temple. It is the
vessel you have been given to live this life and –
Myself interrupts: IT IS A VESSEL FOR GRAVY. FILL IT.
Sometimes I win this battle. Other times I go home and eat a
fudge pop smashed up in a bowl with a Reese’s egg on top. Then I might follow
that up with some chips. Then maybe I roast a marshmallow peep on top of the
gas stove…
Listen. What matters is that my ring comes off my finger
now. To celebrate this, I recently took serious advantage of the after-Easter
candy sales. I may or may not have been standing at the Walgreens register at
6:30 pm, face still red from GRIT, with 3 bags of discounted chocolate in hand.
You win some, you lose some, amirite?
