A Confession

Here’s a not-so-newsflash: I hate working out.

Here’s a bigger one: I’ve finally figured out why.

Those who know me know that I find exercise to be pointless, not that much fun and to be avoided at all costs. Granted, I’ve lost a bit of weight over the last year or so, but it’s threatening to come back, and I rather don’t like that idea. However, I had also resigned myself to the idea of just getting to a certain point and not really caring what happens afterward.

Here’s a bit of background: In the not-too-distant past, I topped the scales at 311 pounds. Yeah, I know, make all the jokes you want. I was huge, and I didn’t really care all that much. I figured I was never going to be skinny, so why bother trying? People would like me for what’s inside, and if all they saw was the outside, well, I was well-rid of such superficial folks in my life. That was my reasoning, anyway, and it fit me for the time. I could have gotten even bigger, I reasoned, and that didn’t mean people wouldn’t like me.

That line of thought went by the wayside when I thought rationally about it, though. After all, even though I write stories about gods and demons, I do it in a rational way. If I kept going, I would likely have a heart attack by the time I hit the big 4-0, and likely sooner. I had a niece that I adore, and I probably wouldn’t see her graduate high school, much less college, if I kept things up. I was digging my own grave with a fork, a spoon, chopsticks, even my bare hands. I mean, sure, I don’t smoke or drink, or even partake of drugs, but then, I didn’t have to do any of that. My own drug of choice was food, and I was and am hooked through the bag.

So, I cut down drastically on my intake, and that helped quite a bit. Dropped nearly sixty pounds and six inches around my waist. Didn’t exercise much, if at all, but I stopped eating so damned much. Why? Because as much as I love food, I hate to work out. I utterly despise it.

Finally, after getting off an elliptical machine, I discovered why.

You see, to my mind, when you work out, you don’t go anywhere. You’re literally walking or running or whathaveyou in place for a bit of time, and not getting anywhere. Sure, the machine says I went a mile, or three miles, but I haven’t actually gone anywhere. Not only that, but I’m leaving behind something of myself, in this case, sweat.

Work with me here for a minute; I swear it make some twisted sort of sense.

For most of my life, I’ve constantly felt that I was never getting anywhere, that I was running in place and not making any distance. Not only that, but every time I struggled and didn’t seem to get somewhere, I was leaving part of myself behind, be it my self-respect, my dignity, my heart, whatever. I’ve done that often enough over the course of my life, and I really hate it. I mean, it galls me to no end seeing myself fight and struggle and not just gain nothing, but seemingly lose part of myself in the bargain.

Which brings me back to working out, and my hatred of it. I don’t see the point of it. The machine says I’ve accomplished something, and all I can see is that I’m still in my living room, still the same out-of-shape slug that climbed on the damned machine a half-hour prior, and the only thing I have is a shortness of breath. I’ve gained nothing, and somehow I’m supposed to do this again? And again? And never stop doing it?

Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

I don’t think I’ll ever stop hating working out. In fact, I’ll likely hate it until the day I die. Even more likely, I’ll die while working out. However, now that I recognize where my aversion and downright hatred of exercise comes from, I think I can keep working out.

Just don’t ask me to be your workout partner, unless you like to hear more cussing than Joe Pesci slamming his fingers in a window.

~ by Walker on August 3, 2013.

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