Excuses, excuses!

Well, it's January, which means I'm attempting to change my life with Oprah. This means not eating cookies every day, drinking more water and less coffee, slouching less, and yes, going to the hot, stinky gym three times a week.

Recently I stayed up late enough to catch the repeat of Oprah's show. She was going over her "weightloss confession" and kept saying "no one likes to work out." So true. I think it's just not in our genes to enjoy physical labor. I suspect people who say they do like working out really just find satisfaction in the pride and sense of accomplishment that comes after. Pushing your muscles to their limits is never going to be a pleasurable sensation. I wonder what our Cro-Magnon ancestors would think of their children today if they could be alive to see it (and possess capacity for language and abstract thought). Here we are, trotting along on machines, running towards nothing and to catch nothing! Maybe they would be most amazed at how flabby we all are. Maybe they would chase us down, mistaking us for chubby prey.

Somehow I forced myself to ignore my ancient instincts not to waste calories on a purposeless run and arrived at the gym! But not without thinking of a million excuses for me NOT to work out. Here are just a few of ways my voice of "reason" pleaded with me to turn back:

"It's so cold out. I'm going to be miserable walking back to the car wearing shorts."
"There's never any good machines open."
"I've been feeling bloated all day. That's no way to work out."
"Also, I have a weird pain on my finger."
"I've got so much housework waiting for me. Maybe I should get a headstart on that instead of working out today."
"Changing in the gym's basement takes so long. If only I had a gym in my apartment building."
"I'm probably going to get athlete's foot changing in this gross locker room."
"I didn't remember a hair tie! I can't work out with my hair loose! I should go home--wait, I found one. Darn."

I won the battle, I suppose, but the war may be endless and very whiny.