Sure, I have excuses. Which one would you like? The one where I blame this (minor, hardly incapacitating) cold I’m nursing? The one where it rained every morning this week and walking to school in the rain is a big bummer? The one where I show you how at lunchtime—when I could conceivably take a break, take a stroll—the temperature has averaged 95 degrees? The one where I point out that it was my birthday, you know, and I shouldn’t have to do things I don’t liiiiiike while it’s my birthday? The one where I show you my calendar, point out the deadlines and the appointments and the kids’ endless requirements to be driven here and there for various things?
They’re not very good excuses, and I know that. I feel guilt about it. And then I take a nap until it passes.
I once spent about an hour on the phone with Joshilyn while she hiked around the hills behind her house, trying to convince her that it would be a good day to skip her workout and just take it easy. She maintained that she was taking it easy and that without this tromping around she’d be useless for the rest of the day. I maintained that the number of times she had to stop and cough up a lung were evidence that she should be home in bed, or at the very least, sitting still at her desk. She didn’t hang up on me, but she marched the full measure of her planned path, regardless. She also had a nasty case of bronchitis while this was happening. (It is not terribly surprising that later she ripped out her post-surgical stitches by accident with an “easy” workout.)
Joss and I are polar opposites when it comes to exercise. She loves it; I hate it. She craves it; I have to psych myself up. She insists I can develop an endorphin addiction if I keep at it, but I never seem to be able to maintain a routine long enough that it feels like an important part of my life. I want to believe, but I also fear that I am… just… lazy.
Earlier this year I came very close to developing good exercise habits, but the first time I got off my routine, getting back on it again was as hard as starting over. And once I’d lost my goal amount of weight? Forget it. Vanity, it turns out, is a pretty good motivator. Just general I-want-to-be-healthier inclinations? Not so much.
Do you think some people are just hard-wired to enjoy exercise more than others? Or have I just not hit upon the magical combination of exercise/circumstance/whatever that makes that cartoon lightbulb over my head glow and me jump around exclaiming, “YES! I LOVE THIS!”?