This isn’t a fitting room, Mr. Gym.
So fuck you and your flourescent lights!
Sorry. I couldn’t hold back.
There’s no better way to deflate the euphoria you feel after working out than to take your elevated heart rate having, chest heaving behind into the bathroom at the gym. Forget the fire engine red face and whispy hairs standing at attention all over my head. Why do I look wider than all outside? I didn’t look this HUGE in my mirror at home before I got my ass to the gym, so why do I look like a massive mound of tapioca pudding wrapped in lycra now?
ENOUGH! STOP IT.
This is where I need to talk myself up instead of beating myself down. Who cares what I look like after kicking my own ass at the gym? At least I am here, sweating to the beat of my own drum, not caring who is watching while I’m breathing as if I’m having a panic attack.
The point is I am DOING IT.
Why berate when you can praise yourself for getting your tapioca pudding butt running on the treadmill? Yes RUNNING. Not walking, holding onto the bars to avoid the embarrassing fall and subsequent belt trip to the floor, but actually running. Give yourself some credit!
Screw the lights and keep up the fight . . .