Personal Trainer? Not Quite

I’ve been working out. Here’s what I think about working out:

I don’t love it.

I DO it.

But I don’t love it.

Which isn’t to say that I’m completely lazy. There are activities I enjoy. I like to hike, for example. I like to swim. I like to play golf.

Working out? Eh, not so much.

But I’m DOING it. For a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the eventual promise of a slightly smaller ass.

AND, I might add, the workout program that I am following is HARD.  Sensible (resistance training, cardio, and flexibility training in circuits), but really difficult.

The thing about working out is this: after a challenging workout, I never think  “Oh man, I’m SO sad that I just did that!”  Your brain, apparently, is wired to make you experience post work out euphoria. Like, “ooooh, I’m so happy I did that! I feel GREAT! I think I’ll go drink a gallon of water and eat healthy food! WHEEEE!”

Fortunately (or not, depending) this mood will pass and then chocolate resumes its rightful place in your noggin as an essential food group.

But anyway. The working out.

Have I mentioned that I have a cat?

Have I mentioned that the cat is VERY INTERESTED in whatever I’m doing at any given time?

And have I mentioned that every time I’m doing something that involves sitting or reclining on the floor, she needs to be on my person?

So. Yeah. Imagine, if you will, the following.

Pushups. With a cat on your back.

Bench press. With a cat on your stomach.

Sit ups. With a cat on your face,

Lateral press. With a cat eating your hair.

Because working out by itself isn’t sweaty and tormenting enough.

Oh well, it’s extra resistance, right?