Exercise and I- The love hate relationship

I have a love hate relationship with the gym, the barbells, and the weight lifting benches.

Now I go, now I don’t.

Now I lift. Now I don’t.

It’s crazy.

Soon I’ll start my regime which I’ve abandoned for some months. Maybe 1 year. Motivation? I’m unfit.  Plus there is the illusion of a lithe body that may just look 20 at 40.

I do not want sexy abs in 3 minutes.

Actually my goals are rather vague; somewhere in the region of ‘eat healthy and exercise’. I work out by that one very blanket statement. No fancy programs or timelines. Lazy I know but if it will create the oh! so glorified calorific deficit and make the kilos drop, I’m good to go.

I have so much to allocate time for and that statement is all that fitness gets. In addition of course to paying gym subscription, showing up, and actually working out.

I was never good at fixed timings and routines. They’re the number one killer of morale for me. Start this at 6 and end it at 7, jump on this from 7.30 to 8……. I know it helps. I’m just not good at it. I do use help from the instructors so my workouts  are not always all over the place, but a lot of times I thrive on jumbling up whatever looks fun for the day. I end up doing all that is required of me – only not in a set order or routine. And certainly no isolated movements to supertone any particular part of the body at the expense of others. Just eat healthy and exercise.

This time though, I’m thinking I may just decide to see how much better those fancy custom made programs can work. Micro-fit assessment tests. Fitness level, body fat indexes, flexibility index, body fat ratio, lean muscle… I need to see my body ratios on paper. The little numbers and graphs that are supposedly a representative of my innards. Yeah right. I want to see those. Then have a program tailored towards them.

At some motivated point I even thought of *shudder shudder* journaling. But that was the briefest of thoughts. I won’t journal because I won’t keep at it. I’ll just do away with the calories without having to meticulously keep a count of every little morsel that gets into my mouth. I’ll take mental notes. When I hit the gym, say on Monday, I’ll keep in mind that I did not exactly feed on carrot sticks over the weekend.

Finally, they lie. Those that say I should be at a certain weight at my height lie. I ain’t going down to their recommended gaunt weight. I’m an African woman. I need my curves.

And no, I will not ask you whether I look fat in this.

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