The things I hate about exercise are too numerous to...enumerate. Which isn't going to stop me.
I hate being hot. I hate sweating. I hate hearing it wouldn't be boring and hateful if I'd just find the kind of exercise I LOVE, DUH! I hate how the first month I start exercising I put on ten pounds, and I don't lose it until I (inevitably) quit exercising. I hate how no amount of exercise is ever considered "enough": you always need to be doing MORE.
I don't know if I could choose my absolute least-favorite thing about exercise, but today the honor goes to how much TIME it takes. When Henry started three-morning-a-week preschool last fall, I had a little talk with myself. I was pretty stern. I informed myself that with three mornings all by myself in the house, I certainly could spare 30 minutes three times a week to exercise.
And is it 30 minutes? Is it hell. From the moment I pull out the Wii Fit board until the moment I'm dressed in non-gross clothes again, it's 60 minutes. And that's to get an amount of exercise many people would consider completely negligible, and may I just as an aside kick their legs out from under them as they head out for their lazy little 5-mile run because they're taking it easy today.
So, to exercise just enough that my doctor assumes I'm lying to her, it costs me three hours per week (plus ten pounds). That is a lot of time. And in case you are feeling tempted to argue with me, let me say it again with more of a "now is not the right moment for a receptive response to that argument" spin to my eye contact: THAT IS A LOT OF TIME. Three hours a week is a lot of time. Do you want me to add "to me" to the end of that sentence? I will at the end of the paragraph, but right now I'm to riled up to add that qualifier. I suppose if I were sitting around bored, flipping channels and then going to bed early because I couldn't think of anything else to do, it might not be that big of a deal to me. But I spend every day almost PANTING with things I need/want to do. I hate bedtime because I'm always in the middle of something. Three hours is a lot of time to me.
It means giving up three hours of things I would rather do, every single week, for a benefit I have to take on faith. I am forced to assume it's worth it. I am forced to assume the exercise benefit is better for my health than the extra ten pounds is bad for it. I am forced to assume that if I am someday fortunate enough to be an old lady, I will be more grateful for the three hours a week I spent exercising than I would be if I'd spent the three hours a week blogging or reading or cleaning or doing ANYTHING AT ALL I'D RATHER DO. Which I AM assuming, which is why I'm more than four months into this latest effort. But I am not HAPPY about it, and I'm not going to call it "me time" or "time for MYSELF" or whatever: this is a sacrifice, and I hate it. It's CHORE time. If I were someone who used the expression "Me time," I'd reserve it for things I LIKE DOING. Such as writing about how much I hate exercising.
Summer sleep-away camp supplies - I am in a TIZZ about Elizabeth going to Girl Scouts camp this summer. I’m GLAD she’s going, and I’m glad she WANTS to go, but it’s a week and this is the f...