By definition, endorphins are supposed to be magic hormones which inhibit pain receptors. You hear the athletic types “wait for the endorphin rush” and then move into hyper-drive once they “kick in.” I call bullshit. I think my so-called endorphins will kick in just as soon as Dr. Ojalumse Ahmed from Burkina Faso, South Africa sends me the $5 million reward he promised me after I sent him my checking account number so that he can use it to transfer his money into a Swedish bank.
I am on P90X Week 2, Day 2. As much as working this hard makes me grumble, I have seen two benefits thus far that (somewhat) encourage me to keep going. Firstly, I’ve lost nearly six pounds. I know it isn’t just water weight, because I’d started adjusting my eating about a month ago, and had lost about six pounds before starting The Torture. I’m sure that was mostly water weight. Secondly, on Wednesday afternoon my period started. (By the way, if you are not one of my fellow infertile readers, we infertile blogging folk talk about the happenings of our uteri with all the banality of discussing the weather. Welcome to our world. Sort-of.) This is newsworthy because in the past year this is only my fourth period, and the other three were medically jump-started by a shot of progesterone. This period came on its own, and with all the force of an evil, mallet-wielding midget whanging me repeatedly in the soft parts. I was knocked flat for a day (coincidentally, the P90X “rest” day), but I still felt like giving my uterus a high-five for not being a stubborn ass for once.
Though the immediate results are pleasing, the process is anything but. I am preemptively angry leading up to the workout, knowing that as I’m flopping around like a grounded fish, I’m just going to end up pissed off at myself for ever getting so out of shape in the first place. I am almost ashamed to admit that at the end of today’s workout, I pulled a wimpy and almost started crying from self-pisstivity. The only good thing about being so frustrated is that it motivates me to keep going despite my dislike of it making me feel like a tubby loser. I’m an angry gumball, indeed, but I guess that type of motivation is better than having no motivation at all.
Contrary to my short-term mind, I’m trying to stay focused on the on the long-term benefits that I know will come if I keep at it. Don’t be jealous when I am an endorphin-high skinny and a millionaire.
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