My face looks fatter today. That piece of flesh on the top of my thigh is mocking me. I’m studying my flaws in the mirror. I’m never going to reach my goal. I feel like I’m running in place, making the same mistakes over and over. My woe is me attitude is certainly not going to get me where I want to be.
It would appear that I find it more appealing to sit around criticizing myself than to elevate my efforts.
I’d like to continue to waltz with the idea of “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” but listening to the endless stream of people calling in to podcasts, or writing in to the YouTube fitness sensations with their carefully crafted excuses makes my stomach turn. I know they’re lying because I hear myself do it. My greatest strides come from deep honesty. Ugly honesty. I say ugly because it always comes with an ugly cry or an ugly hangover.
It’s so much more work than you anticipate, more than you can actually imagine. Exponentially more difficult than the bubbly blond on Instagram might describe–especially, if you are the kind of person that medicates sadness or loneliness with food and drink.
I have to imagine that all of this suffering is worth the results, because most of the time I’m not sure it is. In this case, proceeding towards a goal that you have a hard time believing is possible is worth it. Fake it ’til you make it. I’ll pretend I enjoy this jog, I’ll pretend I enjoy this kale until I fucking do.