While I’ve never had an abortion or been ‘fortunate’ enough to be pregnant, I do have a baby of fat around my tummy that must be expunged. Yes, it’s a wedding thing. I don’t want to walk down the aisle with people coming to conclusions about why we are getting married so quickly after meeting each other.
The roll of dough hovering around my belly button never bothered me before, but the thought of 100+ guests staring at no one else but me has me channeling Richard Simmons. I’m fine with my weight. A few pounds away from what I weighed when I finally passed my driver’s license exam at 17-years-old, I’m happy when the scale lights up. I’m perfectly fine.
Except this ring of gluttony that won’t go away. I’ve had it for quite some time now no matter how many races I ran or hours I logged on the treadmill. So I gave up. I didn’t want to work out anymore. I wanted to concentrate on work or other personal things. I was tired of spending time being active. I said good-bye to my gym membership. I ceased all exercise.
But recently, I wanted to give it a go again. I started a gym membership. I got back on the treadmill a week ago for the first time in a very long time. I’ll admit, that sometimes during vacation, I’ll feel like working out—but that has been very sporadic the past couple years.
In my crazy mental state of wanting to prove that I could do it, I ran straight for 30 minutes at a 10 minute mile clip. Then today I set the pace at a 9 minute mile. In a couple days, I’ll set it at 8. Now, after a multi-year hiatus from any physical activity, I’m ready to abort this baby.
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