Here’s the truth about me and motivation: I have exactly zero motivation on exactly all of the days of the week, the month, the year. ZEE-RO.
I have to make myself get up and get outside or pick up the weights or whatever it is I do, every single time I do whatever it is I do. There’s no “woo hoo! I get to go sweat and enjoy my back aching and my knees creaking and my hips going all tight on me!” I force myself.
I do it, though. Kind of sporadically lately, but I do it, and I’ll tell you why: it’s for those moments when I find myself sweating and red-faced and breathing hard and grinning. Yep, grinning. It’s for those moments when I visualize myself stepping outside of my overweight self, as if it were a costume I can just unzip and walk out of, when I strip off that weight and all the other crap that comes with it and leave it behind me in the dust, when I feel strong and sure and happy. When I see the thinner, stronger, tougher, better, happier me kicking fat me’s butt. In a good way. When I feel swift and fleet of foot, like that FTD guy, and like I could go on forever.
I know the reality is very different. I’ve been outpaced by grannies and cranky old men and arthritic dogs. It’s kind of like this for me:
This is one instance when clinging to the fantasy is wiser than being a realist.
I’m going to keep going. Motivated or not.
ETA: Just back from my walk and I ask you this: who’s a freaking rockstar Amazon? I am, that’s who. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.