|vintage exercise device|
is damn hard, and not having exercised for, let's say, years, has rendered me not only overweight but painfully out of shape. The kind of out of shape where hopscotch on a laid-out-on-the-ground ladder makes me breathe hard.
It sort of bums me out that all the work I do taking care of Sophalofa doesn't go one iota toward increasing my fitness. In fact, I think it's fair to say that all the work I do taking care of Sophalofa is manifested in a near-constant stream of cortisol that, if you know a bit about biology, is a recipe for metabolic havoc. If you add on three children (giving birth, that is), fast approaching fifty years, inadequate aerobic activity and a propensity to love bread and sugar --
Sigh. And Good Lord. And all that boring stuff.
I find the necessity of exercise to be near tyrannical.
Boot camp is at the crack of dawn, and if I'm going to exercise I need to do it then. I have no problem waking early and getting going and when it's 6:30 am and the tyrant has been appeased for the day, I might not be able to walk very well, but I'M DONE.
So far, so good (how many cliches can I fit into one post?). I've gone four out of the five days, am about as sore as I've ever been, am having a recurrence of plantar fascitiis and hit a wall around 4:00 in the afternoon, but I feel pretty up. That's endorphins for you, I think. Or at least it's Stockholm syndrome.
Hopefully, I'll start shrinking soon -- perhaps for every pound I lose, Sophie might gain one? Is that too much to ask the tyrant?