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Lately, I’ve been trying to get back in shape. Yeah, I’m that guy right now. Thanks to genetics, I haven’t started to develop a horrible dad-bod yet, but I have started to feel myself getting soft. I was beginning to take skinny-fat to the max so a change needed to be made. Working out is a lot harder when instead of training for a sport, as I was in college; I’m doing it simply to not devolve into an unfuckable fat slob.
Jumping back on the fitness train involves a bit of mental toughness with both physical activity and diet. Unfortunately, I give into peer pressure far too often. Even more unfortunate? That pressure comes from within.
You see, I can somehow always convince myself that I deserve something or should do something for just the most borderline made-up reasons. Last night after dinner, my sweet tooth and I helped ourselves to a fairly decent sized piece of cake. As my fork hit the plate, I stared over at the cake and started sizing that bitch up for another slice. That second slice needed to be nowhere near me. But, that bastard of a voice in the back of my head came calling.
“Hey man, you put in a really good day in the office and you’re working out later anyways…”
Slice two was goddamn delicious.
Now I’m long past the age of giving into my peers on a whim. Yeah, occasionally I can be talked into staying for one beer too many, but for the most part, I’m making my own calls. The problem with that is that my own calls are sometimes being influenced by the skeezy ’50s gangster in my head who’s saying everything will be fine, and that I earned what I’m about to do.
Too often I let myself know, “Hey, you put in a pretty decent run of sales calls just now. I think you should probably just worthlessly browse the internet and get lost in a Wikipedia rabbit hole for the next 45 minutes to reward yourself.” An hour later you find yourself balls deep in the page for “Gilligan’s Island (season 2)” and realize that you’ve just let yourself get majorly behind on work.
Where is this easy persuasion when I’m trying to do something positive? In one of my aforementioned workouts, when I’m struggling like Ted Cruz at a gay pride event, there’s no inner monologue telling me how I’ve done harder workouts before and this should be a breeze. No, instead there’s my scumbag of a personal de-motivator sitting by an imaginary tiki bar ripping heaters and telling me, “You’ve done plenty of crunches, wrap it up and go grab a beer.”
The guy constantly resting in a hammock located in my subconscious is my own personal version of the affluenza kid’s parents. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve neglected to weed-eat the grass on the side of my house because I’ve been internally swayed that just mowing the grass was more than enough. I do my best to beat this bastard and his slacker advice away with a broom, but sometimes I just can’t help but say to myself, “You know, he’s got a point.”
My father is a natural hard-worker. Guy can just put his nose to the grindstone 24/7 and get shit done. It’s a quality I aspire to have as well, but things are just a bit tougher when my drive to work is interfered with by my mind’s version of a back-alley drug dealer selling baggies of procrastination. Having a fucking bum for a subconscious could work in college when I had the free time to be coerced into a nap, but now life’s biggest struggle is my constant duel with the lazy persuasive beast within as I try to manage my limited time.
As I write this, I’m gearing up to go sweat off some more of roughly two years of inactivity. The workout itself doesn’t concern me; I’ll power through it. However, I do know that a few minutes after its completion that same constant deterring voice will pipe up with, “Hey man, way to push yourself. Don’t forget, full half-gallon of ice cream in the freezer. I bet you could put a real dent in that thing. After that workout, you’ve earned it.” .
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