I have been waking up at 6:00 every morning for the past several weeks and going to the gym.
I know.
I know.
I can’t explain it really. Most likely, I’ve just lost my mind, a minor, temporary setback, and I’ll run out of steam and be back to normal before long. Most likely.
It happened like this: a few weeks ago, when paying my tuition with money I one hundred percent would rather have spent on a trip to Europe or somewhere tropical, I looked at my bill and saw that fee they tack on for the university gym membership (they call it “Sports and Recreation;” I call it yet another sure-fire way to gouge the 98% of the student body who will never use the facility, not even once), and I lost it.
“This is ridiculous. I have been paying $100 per semester for the last four semesters (five counting summer school) to belong to a gym that I’ve never even seen before. That’s $400 just wasted, flushed down the toilet with a great heap of academic diarrhea. This will not do.”
The next day, I went to the gym.
The next day after that, I went to the gym.
The next day…and so on.
Sticking it to the man, making Jillian proud…no matter what you call it, there’s no denying that I am an official gym-goer now.
I can even jog a mile without dying. (But not an inch further, believe me, I’ve tried.)
The bad thing about this is that because I am waking up so much earlier than ever before, I tend to hit a wall every day around 1:00—a wall that looks something like this:
SUGAR SUGAR I NEED SUGAR GIVE ME SUGAR GIVE ME NOW MY DAILY SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR.
My defenses are down because I am weary. (That’s what I keep telling myself.) My will power is pathetic enough on a normal day, let alone on a day when I am tired and sore and finished with 3/4 of my classes and therefore clearly entitled to a treat for all my hard work. (I’m so logical when I make bad choices, aren’t you?)
Whatever calories I burn off at the gym in the morning (which are not many, according to that bastard the treadmill—did you know that jogging a mile only burns, like, five calories?) are entirely negated at 1:00 in the afternoon when I find myself unable to resist the call of the campus cafeteria’s fresh-baked milk+dark+white chocolate chip cookies—a triumvirate of cookie perfection baked lovingly every hour on the hour by a jolly-looking man who wears a little hair net over his long white beard. He’s like my own personal Santa Claus, except for me Christmas comes every day of the year—take that, Hanukkah.
Yesterday I bought two and ate them directly.
Pingback: Archives of Our Lives » No Cookies.