Back around 2003 or so, my torpid, bloated self topped 265 on the scales, and I made up my mind to do something about it. Physically, I was uncomfortable. My clothes didn't fit right and my shoes--shoes--started wearing out with disturbing rapidity. Diet alone wasn't cutting it, so I bit the bullet and started working out with the goal of getting down to 220. One year later I (briefly) hit 215. I felt great. Physically, shedding those 50 excess pounds made a tremendous difference.
Only then, of course, complacency set in. I stopped working out regularly. I stopped swearing off second servings and junk food snacks. Basically, I fell back into old habits because, once you get right down to it, I hate working out. I dislike the sweat, the elevated heart rate, the muscle burn. I have never, ever experienced a workout high. I like the results, sure, but everything else about it sucks to high heaven.
So this past month I tipped the scales at 246. Discounting the brief dip to 215, that meant I'd gained 26 pounds from my goal weight of 220 over a period of 3-4 years. Not a drastic ballooning, but a steady, disturbing creep.
So I've recommitted myself to sweaty physical workouts. And I hate them just as much now--if not moreso--than I did four years ago. After two weeks' worth of sweating through some (very) mild cardio stuff (no weight training as of yet) I've shed three pounds. Not much, but the weight's stable and trending downward. The bad thing is that I hurt. Muscles, joints... every cell in my body seems to be cursing me, arguing stridently for me to stop this madness. Today the burn is particularly bad (even though I didn't work out today) because the Bug decided to play around from 3-5 a.m., and it was my turn to try and convince him that sleep is much more desirable an activity in the wee hours. Now I've got the exhaustion jitters and brain fog working me over but good in addition to the normal physical agony.
Did I mention I hated working out?
I'm just sayin'.
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