On Not Feeling Like Working Out But Working Out Anyway

You know how it goes: the hour to run or hit the gym is upon you, and you’d rather do anything but.

You’re sleepy, lethargic and generally uninspired; but remembering the calories from the bottle of wine you drank the night before, you begrudgingly slip into your running clothes.

Lacing up your shoes, your eyes scan the room for the last place you dropped your Shuffle. Ah, it’s on the desk, great. Hopefully there’s enough battery life left to get you through this workout because there’s no way you’re accomplishing anything physically productive without Lil Wayne, Wiz Khalifa and Rick Ross rapping about the challenges of peddling high-quality drugs, having exceptional sexual skills and driving expensive automobiles.

Heading downstairs, you decide you’ll hop on Twitter and do your followers the favor of tweeting for the third time in the last two hours that you are, in fact, going to the gym now. Don’t forget to check your email while you’re at it. And Facebook.

You begin to realize you’ve exhausted your procrastination opportunities and that if you don’t actually get off your ass at this point, you’re going to run out of time to do anything at all due to other obligations lined up for the day. You reluctantly close your laptop, search the couch for your keys, gather your belongings and finally head out the door.

The drive to the gym seems to take absolutely no time at all…of course. You pull into your usual parking space and decide to make sure nothing critical is happening on Twitter before tucking your phone into the center console. Nothing critical is happening on Twitter. With a loud sigh, you pry your bloated, apathetic body from the driver’s seat and walk towards the entrance to the building.

You briefly cringe as you notice the guy working the front desk today is the establishment’s most enthusiastic and chatty employee. Quickening your pace to appear as though you’re in a rush, you scan your tag, mutter a polite greeting and keep walking. Earbuds in place, you make your way upstairs to the cardio room and hop on your favored elliptical. You’d really rather not be on an elliptical at all, but your left knee feels otherwise. Increasing the resistance level and setting the machine to 30 minutes, you remind yourself that the faster you complete three miles, the faster you can get off this awkward contraption and move on to weightlifting.

Within the first half mile, sweat is pouring from your face as though you weigh 350lbs and are running outdoors in 107 degree weather. You briefly pat yourself on the back for your current efforts, lest you trade your active lifestyle for a sedentary existence defined only by booze, pizza and frequent trips to the bathroom.

Somehow you make it through three miles, amble around the indoor track for a lap or two as a “cool-down,” then head back downstairs to remind yourself that you might actually have a couple of muscles somewhere within those flaccid limbs attached to the top and bottom of your torso.

You move some weight around for another 30 minutes. Maybe 45. Maybe 20, who knows. Anything is better than nothing at all, right? Besides, your triceps are on fire and your shoulders, which are also ablaze, have declared your efforts a success.

Briefly pausing to contemplate whether you’re up for a tanning session, you decide against baking yourself in a capsule of excessive heat and UV rays today. The knowledge that you are now free to leave the premises brings a smile to your face, but only a slight one so as not to give off the impression to other gym patrons that you are friendly enough to speak to out of turn. The gym is a sacred haven of solitude, a gateway to inner peace that would be dashed by familiarity with others who also frequent the facility.

You float back to your car in much higher spirits than before you arrived. As always, you never regret a workout. The satisfaction of completion means you’ll enjoy the rest of your day without the guilt and remorse that accompanies laziness.

You tweet, you shower, you forage for food among the meager rations found within your kitchen. You absentmindedly pat your dog’s head. You write a half-assed blog post about your lackluster workout.

Then you decide to actually go to the gym instead of just writing about it.