Sharon made me run again on Friday. Not a lot, just a couple laps around the track in between the weights she had me doing.
As we were wrapping up and she was directing my stretching, she said something about running again.
“I really hate running,” I told her.
She looked at me blankly for a moment as if this concept were difficult for her to grasp. Someone who doesn’t like running? That’s just un-American! Hating running is like hating ice cream and apple pie (Neither of which I’m a big fan of, btw. I’m more of a cookies and cake kind of girl)
Sharon: But you told me you’ve been running on the treadmill….?
Me: Yeah. But I don’t like it.
Sharon: You don’t even like it but you’ve been doing it? That’s great! You’re really committed!
I told Sharon when we first started working together that I hate exercise. I remember her giving me an odd look at the time, but she just said: “Some people do.”
I don’t know if she thought I’d somehow change my mind, as if over the course of my 30+ years I’d just never given exercise a chance.
Sometimes she’ll have me do something like the new elliptical machine and say, “I think you’ll like this. It’s really fun!” I think she needs to get out more.
I do it. I hate it, but I do it. I’ve taken the choice away from myself. It’s no longer an optional activity like watching TV or reading Pride and Prejudice for the 100th time. It’s a daily requirement: like going to work.
My weight’s been weird the last few weeks. Lose a pound; Gain a pound; Lose three pounds; Gain a pound and a half… It’s really frustrating.
Overall, though, my “regime” is working. Slowly slowly slowly. But it IS working. I hate it with a burning, seething passion. But it’s working.