Today, I went to the gym.
The most exciting part of my day was actually the surprise wedding at work that I was Maid of Honouring in, but that’s a story for another day.
Instead, I want to tell you about the torture I endured during my first official cardio workout in, oh, 2 years.
You see, last Sunday, I made some bold commitments. One of those was to work out 3 times a week (Tues, Thurs & Sat) with Ben at his building’s gym. I also made plans to run outside once a week with Jen (Sunday).
I (un)fortunately missed Tuesdays workout because by the time I got to the skytrain station and realized I forgot my debit card in my other purse and would have to walk another 40 mins round trip for fare, it was already getting late. I’m pathetic on work nights, ok?! I didn’t want to be awake all night.
Anyway.
I think it was at about minute 24 of 30 where, in the spirit of my friend Kieran who likes both working out and rating things on scales, I announced to Ben, “On a scale of 1 to 10, I hate working out about an 11.”
Dramatic, I know, but I’m a sissy.
To make matters worse, there was a seriously hot Australian dude pumping iron while Ben and I flailed around on the cardio machines.
Did I mention my horrible clothes? I don’t own workout clothes. I own sweatpants and oversized t-shirts and a nice pair of running shoes because feet sizes don’t actually change over the years. And I was in Yaletown. Yaletown.
On Saturday, we’re going hiking. I despise hiking. I know, I’ve completely lost my mind.
And sure, I’ll continue being active, but I will also hate every moment of it.
Fancy workout clothes are lame. Don’t waste your money. If you end up buying anything from lululemon I’m ending our friendship.
Hey if Yaletown intimidates you can always come with me after work on Tuesday. I’ll be down in the basement sweating to Food Network.