Mondays I have come to detest. No other day comes close to exciting in me a much purer surge of desire to simply be out of shape. See, every Monday I get a new set of exercises that I must repeat daily for the week. Naturally, Day 1 hurts like a motherfucker. But so does Day 2 and Day 3 and so on.
The boy designs my assigned work, possibly inspired by Atilla the Hun, and inadvertently challenges my abilities to control homicide. I study the routine, try to do the first set, then daydream of eating a million chicken nuggets. Sometimes, the boy demonstrates each bullet and I pretend to watch and listen to him, but I am secretly just thinking about more chicken nuggets.
The list this week I especially abhor. Trust the boy to focus on areas I hate, areas triumphantly attacking my weaknesses, which of course remind me why I must undergo the suffering in the first place. As I understand it, the problem is not that I don’t want to do the exercises. The problem is that they are freaking hard and I have to do everything, every day, especially when I don’t want to.
I am forced to dig deep, push myself further, be in absolute control of my mind and keep it one with my body. The amount of discipline required is alarming. Not easy. But all my bitching considered, totally worth it.
While I do hate regular training more often than not, how I feel doesn’t matter. How I overcome the negativity does. I survive by repeating to myself, “Let me tell you about the day I give up. Not today.”