I’m in Love With the Pain

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.

But still.

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.


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