Discipline is a Bitch
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I’m not a disciplined person. I have lots of evidence to this effect. I hate schedules. I hate doing things the same way twice. I like to eat what I want, when I want to, quantities, calories and after effects be damned.
Does anyone else go to the gym and wonder to themselves: “who are these people?” You know the ones I mean. The folks who can get on the elliptical, and run it at 98 miles per hour for 90 minutes at a clip. Sure, they sweat, but somehow it looks really easy for them. Every drop of their perspiration seems to call out the fact that their chiseled, hardened bodies love the discipline.
When I sweat, people ask me if I’m alright or if I’d shouldn’t sit down.
I’m not sure if I can ever be like those gym drones who look so happy in their disciplined way. I guess I’d like to. I hear that those folks feel marvelous. By golly, they’ve forsworn bacon and wine and would rather have a vitamin-infused smoothie. With some wheatgrass on the side.
That’s just the problem. As much as I’d like to be more disciplined, I find it difficult to go the full distance. I want to get off the elliptical trainer as soon as I get on. It’s like being in first grade, where the minutes on the big clock above the teacher’s desk tick by ever so slowly. In a world where there is no time, somehow the time on the elliptical trainer seems as though there is all the time in the world for sheer torture.
Don’t tell me that’s because I’m not cross-training or having fun in my workouts. The same phenomenon happens on the Stairmaster, or the treadmill or the recumbant bike. While I enjoy having exercised, the process is no fun. Who wants to sweat like that anyway?
Trainers don’t help. I think the only way to manage exercise is to force yourself to do it. No matter what. And that takes discipline. Is it any wonder I’m corpulent?
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