An ongoing argument with myself about whether or not to drag my bones to the gym = gymnauseam. Why do I make regular gymming it difficult to the point of mental nausea? I dread it, put it off, finally drag myself to the car, and always discover that is is relatively painless-and I feel satisfied after that I have done something positive for myself. It is always an issue with me, a fact that I guess I attribute to my latent couch potato tendencies.
It is a nice enough place to go. The equipment, to get that ol' heart a-pumping, is state-of-the art. I mean, I can even watch tv while on the ho-hum treadmill, which certainly eases the boredom factor of the activity; but I'd much rather be sitting on a cushy couch sipping a drink and munching popcorn dripping with butter.
The weight room, staffed with trainers, is filled with machines to strengthen every muscle I could ever imagine...and some I can't. Groaning and grunting in time to the piped-in music is the activity du jour in this room, but it leaves me cold.
Yep, hitting the gym is even worse than trotting around my hilly neighborhood, a cardio activity right out my front door. Ah well, the truth is that I was never much in the jock department, and I suspect this is just my oxymoron approach to regular exercise. And so it goes. Ad. Nauseam.