I went to the gym once this week and promptly remembered why I hated going to a gym. If I am left to create my own adventure, I’d rather sit down and read a book. Put me in a Zumba class, and I’ll sashaaaaay my way across the floor like a maniac with no rhythm like all the others. Yoga, spin, a master swim team — I’m your girl.
I am, I now remember, no longer the girl who can put in headphones and happily run along for 60 minutes on a machine.
Treadmills make me feel like a human rat trying to beat some caloric experiment. “If I go another 10 minutes, that’s another 100 calories. If I stay on this thing another 30 minutes, that’s a glass of wine. God, I should be drinking less. Or walking more. Probably both…”
As such, I spent considerable time putting together a tutorial on how I pack a gym bag (which I did five days a week for nearly 10 years, without complaint). This week, I did it once and I spent more time putting together these photos than I did at the gym. I’m not going back. Instead, I am begging my yoga studio to add more early morning classes and making an effort to bike to work in April (with heavy help from an express bus.) And walking Nelson 10 miles or so a week. This is enough. My glory days as a spandexed runner are lost, if they ever existed.
Anyway — here is what was in my gym bag, which is now my new yoga bag. At least the yoga studio has hot water. How do you build such a huge corporate gym and not have hot water in the showers? I suppose it was the same genius who decided to let new people in the gym to give themselves a tour. What a mess.
Bright side? I got a cute new workout bag with an REI dividend and a renewed sense of who I am (yogi, one who likes to sleep in) and who I am not (bone skinny, perpetually sore, runner.)
As I’ve told other girlfriends this week elsewhere, I’m leaning in to sleeping in.