Workout Widow

Noble Ambience Photography

Pump that iron. No. Lift your butt up on those squats. It’s heavy. Run those miles. Ugh. Why? I was working out one day and thought to myself… why the fuck am I doing this? I’m sweaty. It’s hot. And did I mention, I was sweaty? I haven’t been eating healthy so I feel slower than usual. Sloth-like. Maybe it’s the not-so-healthy diet? Sloths eat leaves, how is that unhealthy? Maybe it’s the excruciating September, freaking heat? Why is it so damn hot anyway? Isn’t it autumn yet? I want pumpkin pie. The stair-master has cobwebs on it. Halloween IS… around the corner. What’s a couple creepy popcorn balls in the diet… Shrugs. The dumbbells are rusting. Tetanus anyone? The resistance bands… well, they’re no longer resistant. Rubber is not the same as chewing gum. Spit it out.

So, I have been so lackadaisical about my workouts, even my gym equipment doesn’t know who I am.

#ritaslanina #workoutselfie

Knock. Knock. Who’s there? Rita’s gym equipment. Who? Right. Last night I did a whole five flutter kicks. You go girl! And when I was challenged to add twenty bicycle crunches to that random burst of feeling bad for myself push ups, I laughed for seven and a half minutes. Boom. There’s you’re sit-ups, bitches. Laughing doesn’t equate to sit-up work? I thought laughter was the best medicine. Dammit. So, here I am juicing up a tasty little lemon-celery-carrot concoction, as if thats going to stimulate my metabolism. mmmm… all of the taste, none of the pep. What the hell. I don’t feel the zest absorbing at my cellular level at all. I’m full of juice and freaking starving. Oh… holy crap. Anorexia. That’s it. No, it’s not. Famine… That’s the answer. Nope. Starvation…  I may have just found the answer to getting back on the big blue -fall and bust your ass- ball; Never. Stop it. Get your fat ass on the machine, Rita. Ugh. Fine. I hate you workout-trainer-guy. Interrupting my daydreams. Sandman hater.
The nerve of some people…

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