From earlier this week:
Dear ultra-swanky home gym (AKA The Garage): I’m going to stop pretending that I even like you. I don’t. And that’s no exaggeration.
I. Just. Don’t.
In fact, it’s been about 14 years since I first met you and your companion, the Y. And you know what? Even though the first few years were really, really good, to be honest, I’m still waiting after all those years for those mythical endorphins to kick in.
I. Hate. Your. Guts.
But here’s the thing today: As much as I despise even the thought of you, if I don’t come see you on a more regular basis, I’m going to die, and that real soon. I mean I’m going to die anyway one day, but I’d rather it not be today or this month or this year. Now I may get hit by a bus or some such. But the parts I do have control over, I need to start having control over them again.
So here we are, Monday morning at the ultra-swanky home gym (AKA The Garage). And you will not beat me today.
