Running on Empty

This whole losing weight, bettering myself thing is feeling like sitting in a traffic jam. It would appear that I am getting no where. I know that if I sit on this gridlocked 405 (for my non-LA readers, the 405 is the shittiest highway in Los Angeles ) of fat-fighting long enough, eventually I’ll make it home but the development is so slow it would seem I’m going no where at all.
I could bail, get off the highway and take surface streets through a neighborhood I’m unfamiliar with, drive around until I’m thoroughly lost and running out of fuel. Only to search desperately for the freeway entrance and pray that maybe the cars are moving a just a bit quicker.
I’m burnt out, I’m tired of thinking about this. My legs hurt every day from a workout that didn’t even happen yet. I’m tired of eating the same mix of vegetables, varying only by my choice of kale or spinach for the day. I’m tired of making sure I have a smelly pair of running shoes with me wherever I go, tired of limited progress, knowing that I have to keep going like this forever. The traffic might break and I’ll finally reach my goal, but the method doesn’t change. I’ll always have to think about what I eat, I’ll always have to make sure I move, even when I hurt, because the road that gets me there will be the one I always need to take home.
So, I contemplate my motivation. Sometimes it’s the idea of being free, physically. Sometimes it’s the photo of some girl with rock-hard abs. Sometimes it’s the photo of me a year and a half ago with a bloated face and belly. Sometimes it’s this blog. Sometimes I just stay on the road because I’m too lazy too fuck it up for the day, and that seems like a success.


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