Memoires of why I hate running.

Ah yes, working out. The devil’s way of punishing us for eating mass quantities of carbs. And wine. So after years of working out because I worked at a gym, I stopped. Because I got “busy”, aka-lazy as fuck. Now, I’ll admit, my reasons are completely shallow and have zero health related factors. I am not thinking about my heart stopping in 15 years or about diabetes or any other heart/weight related ailment. I just want to look pretty in a bikini.

After spending 4 days straight watching Gilmore Girls and drinking coffee and wine, I decided that I was disgusted with myself enough to pretend to forget how much I hate running. Playing 8 years of soccer makes no sense to me now. Regardless, I put on my cute workout clothes (to mask the not cuteness I feel) and head off to the depths of Hell. Or the gym.

I chose a treadmill in front of pretty boys with beards. So I could stare at them and they could see me breathing like a wounded rhinoceros. In cute gym clothes. So I ran, jogged, limped, died for a mile and a half. A mere mile and a half when I realized I couldn’t feel my face and my calves had stopped holding my weight. My carbs and wine weight.

After the sweatiest day of my recent life I’ll leave on a positive note: People should work out more. Not to be healthy, but so I can find you aesthetically pleasing while I try not to die on a treadmill.

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2 thoughts on “Memoires of why I hate running.

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