I was flipping between channels today as I was running on the treadmill and it suddenly hit me.
I’m a gym rat.
Not only am I embarrased by this, I am also ashamed.
Being an athlete is one thing – being a gym rat? Something else entirely.
Sure, I don’t stand around leaning on equipment and chatting up the hottie boys (there are none). I don’t dilly-dally or plan my outfits or wear makeup while I workout. I’m there to work, that much is true.
I know everyone who works out from 6:00-8:00am on weekdays. EVERYONE. People are starting to ask me how to use equipment. I am having conversations about nutrition.
I’m one of them.
(And none too happy about it.)
It’s not that I don’t think that fitness is a noble pursuit because, obviously, I do. It’s just that up until this point I have always trained for something. I’ve run outside in training for 5 or 10k’s. I’ve lifted weights just to increase strength for softball.
Now I am just working out.
I have to be honest about that.
Sure, it makes me a better hitter or faster in the baseline. Sure, spending hours going nowhere on the cardio equipment will make me stronger for winter cycling. But, really?
I work out now because I can’t not work out.
I’m in love with the pain.
I’m in love with that place I go while I’m suffering. That zoned out there-is-nothing-but-this glaze that forms on my eyes. For an hour or so, everything falls away.