Some days, the thought of working out is about as thrilling as the thought of your next doctor visit, a particularly invasive doctor my lady-readers will appreciate; discomfort sets in just thinking about it.
Today is one of those days (the workout part, not the doc!).
I’m weary with anticipatory fatigue before I’ve so much as squeezed into my Nike spandex. Not to mention pooped from plowing through the day’s to-dos.
...or something to that effect.
I listened. I ran outside. And it felt fucking fantastic.
We’ve all felt the post-work slog when even the dying light of day has more life, and pilates, running or aerial yoga is more self-inflicted punishment than restorative “me time.”
Maybe you’re here because your boobs forced you to skip the gym — plumped-up PMS pain, anyone?!
Whatever the case, think of Molly T., that silly little rah-rah rhyme, and root for whatever makes you happy before that endless to-do list all but crosses you off.