I have a gym membership. Which, for me, means that my credit card gets charged twenty-one dollars each month and I have a bland, white key chain in exchange for my payment.
Just having a membership makes me feel healthier, even if I use it sparsely.
Every week I promise myself that this will be the week that I make sure that this investment is used well — that I actually use the gym membership that I pay for. And every week this is just a blatant lie I throw at myself.
And while I am always a little down that I didn’t keep my promise to myself, I am never disappointed by the amazing reasons my brain creates that make skipping the gym seem like the only rational decision.
*Disclaimer: I am well aware that human people are supposed to work out and that it is good for you and that, when I’m 80, my hips will just break due to the lack of exercising in my twenties. My “work it out” Pinterest board would suggest that I am actively seeking washboard abs and yearn for powerful thighs. This is a misrepresentation. I dream about breakfast and dessert is not an optional food group in my diet.*
You’re home! How will you ever leave again?
My body plays this fun game where, as soon as it hears my garage door hit the hard cement floor after I throw my purse on the kitchen counter, it savagely attacks the closet until I somehow find myself in my NUX leggings and my dad’s sweatshirt.
I don’t know how it happens; it just does. I am not a medical professional.
And you might be thinking to yourself, “But, sassy Internet voice, you are in workout attire! You are practically a gym rat already! Now all you need to do is get your soft ass through the door, back into your car, and drive the actual two minutes to the gym and be a healthy, living, actual person.”
This is where you are mistaken.
While my NUX workout gear is among some of the most beautiful pieces in my closet (and the most comfortable and slimming), I find that I feel as though I wear them best when I am drinking wine and trying to figure out in what conceivable universe a group of writers decided that it made plot sense to make Dan be Gossip Girl.
After a day of sitting at a desk, I somehow convince myself that this is hard enough labor that I have to finish my day sitting somewhere else. Not on a stationary bike. Not on a weight bench. On my couch like the princess I believe myself to be.
Once the work outfit hits the floor and the workout clothes come on, it’s time to rest.
But, like, Netflix
Do you know how much content there is to consume on Netflix? And how many original new shows and series they are starting next year?
Did you also know that humans are psychologically wired to want to make friends and be social creatures?
These things are so ridiculously connected.
Unless I watch Netflix, I will have nothing to talk to other humans about and will probably find myself drooling onto my shoes and running into walls, trying to stay out the way of people who are discussing the merits of “Narcos” versus “Bloodline.”
I am behind enough as it is. No time to waste helping my body function better.
“But, Sassy, watch Netflix at the gym. You have an iPad mini. And one of those giant iPhones. Those are basically the same size. Pick one and watch Netflix at the gym.”
But think of the ten minutes wasted driving when I could be watching! I can’t! I just can’t do it!
Shine like the top of the Chrysler Building
For some reason, my brain thinks that my house is more important than my body. So if it comes between the house desperately needing to be cleaned or my body desperately needing to be runned, the house somehow always wins.
Just like Vegas.
My playlist looks like a drunk toddler curated it
How on this blessed Earth am I supposed to be expected to work out when my “skinnies” Spotify playlist has one song on it?
Songs get put on that playlist way too quickly, and get removed just as fast.
I get really excited and throw a lot of 90s pop into it. “Oh, Backstreet Boys! That will make me want to sweat it out! Christina! I can make this work.”
Cut to me, bitter and sweaty and resembling a guinea pig left out in the sun for too long and the last thing I want to do is wait for a song to build so that then I can start jamming. Nope. Sorry. YOU DONE, NICK CARTER.
And how can I be expected to exercise without music? What is this? No, no, no, definitely not.
The road to a cuddly figure is caved with excuses.