This working out thing is hard. Its hard because I have to pry myself out of a warm bed which means moving two 20 something pound pugs out of their positions- usually one at my mid back and the other my legs where they manage, to night after night, move me over to where I am trying to rest my ample body on a mere slice of a king-sized bed. They hate getting up more than I do. I have to lift Holly out of the bed and Izzy follows.
Working out is hard because lately I have to brave -40 degree wind chills to get there, including sparring with a cantankerous garage door, unplugging the car, and navigating down sometimes slippery roads at about ten to 7 a.m.
It's hard because my nearly forty-four year old body has suffered years of neglect, abuse, and ridicule from its owner. I now expect it to learn how to exercise properly while I am trying to re-learn eating habits and stop addictions. It's hard because I still struggle with feeling totally unworthy and unable to accomplish my goals, as if everyone on the planet can lose weight except me. It's truly a battle fought not only physically, but also emotionally and mentally as well.
But I love every minute of it. Maybe not during some of the minutes I am actually about to collapse, but I wouldn't trade it or stop it.
Remind me of this in a few weeks when it gets even harder.