Breaking the Seal

The hardest part about working out for me is getting to the gym. Not that I have long arduous walk that in it of itself is an exercise. While it is no short feat to bring myself on the twelve minute walk, once changed into my workout gear I exert myself with no regard to the walk home and often end up feeling better than when I initially started.

With an almost 100% track record of improved mood and physical perception it’s odd that I don’t make my way to the gym with more routine. The more I go to the gym, the better I feel about shelling out that monthly membership and the more justified I feel in buying myself a new pair of pants.

The longer the interval between my last workout, the harder it becomes for me to go to the gym.
I rationalize that I’m still getting exercise chasing my children around and trekking through Manhattan but it’s not that vigorous aerobic exercise that doctors insist release endorphins and bring so many health benefits. Nor is it the anaerobic that creates more muscle which in turn helps burn fat. It’s simply being on my feet and walking.

And I feel exactly the same way about writing. I think about writing. I know I always feel great once I’m done. Or sometimes in the midst of working on something fulfilling or entertaining. I’d love to capture more memories of my mom before they slip away. I’d love to transcribe the stories filling my head and make room for more. I’d love for my short pieces to be polished and find a home. I’d love for me to consider myself a writer again. Yet, here I am lamenting about how I want to write.

There’s a 101 excuses and justifications but in the end, doesn’t everybody need to overcome something? everything to create her masterpiece?

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