I hate the gym.

There is really nothing more to say other than that- I hate the gym.

Well I will say a few things. First, reluctantly, I do get up a few times a week before the girls and my husband are up and head out for an hour of torture. Why can't I be one of those people that feels exhilarated by exercise, full of energy and ready to face the day? I dread the nights that I set my alarm clock to get up early the next morning. YUCK. That means I have to go. No turning back. Where does my bad attitude come from?

It is a good thing I pay to go to the gym. It is guilt money. I would NEVER go if I wasn't laying out an arm and a leg to use those treadmills. Even worse is my husband, who on alternating days hops out of bed and runs 2-3 miles. Not at the gym, but on his own accord on the road. HUH? I could never imagine.

Then there are the other girls. You know the kind, all coordinated and trim, doing a million crunches on the mat in front of the line of treadmills without so much as a bead of sweat on them. Then they prance over to the stair stepper and work those buns like it is no one's business. Except it is because EVERYONE is watching their cheeks move at that ridiculously fast rhythm.

Well, at least I go. That is a step in the right direction. I might be sweaty and dressed in my old sorority t-shirt, but I do get there. I do not need to be happy about it though. Maybe someday I will walk through the doors with a smile. Maybe when I look like stair stepper girl. Hmmm... not likely on either account.