This morning’s transition into the real world after 9 days on vacation was not as bad as I thought it was going to be. I generally like routine, so slipping back into my 4:30 am wake up call to hit the gym actually felt kind of nice. What didn’t feel nice was the pound of Mexican food still in my stomach from last night’s late dinner. About half a mile into my run I felt like there was a dagger in my abdomen, but I HAD to finish just one mile. Screw the abs class I was planning on attending at 5:30, there was no way. I turned the treadmill up as fast as I could run (already in pain, why not finish faster?) and sprinted towards the invisible finish line.
I grabbed my keys and did the walk of shame to the front door of the gym. 10 minutes at the gym, 10 measly, painful minutes. I could just feel the judging eyes of the lady finishing her 10th mile and the man running stairs like it was his job. I felt the need to make an announcement over the PA system that I was leaving not because I was satisfied with my workout, but because my insides were screaming “I HATE YOU” to the rest of my body. The reality is that the other people working out could care less about my time spent at the gym, I just like to project my own thoughts and insecurities onto other people. :)
My dear body, I thought we had an understanding. I thought I could eat Mexican food at 9 pm and still have a painless and effective 4:30 am workout the next morning. I thought I could go on vacation for 9 days and not gain 5 pounds. I was wrong.
Have a good Monday, everyone!