I’m finally starting to see some visible changes in my body, and it’s about damn time, really. I mean, c’mon… I’ve run 2020 miles in the last 21 months, and I’m no stranger to the gym. The majority of my diet consists of fruits and vegetables and most things healthy. So, I think I’m entitled to see some fucking results. My weight hasn’t changed much, but my clothes fit differently. I’m wearing jeans from 7 years ago, when I was in peak physical condition. That’s a good sign, I think.
And someone noticed, too, which makes it even more thrilling.
To up the ante, Coach has been watching too much crossfit on television (apparently) and took me very seriously when I said I needed to step up our workouts a little. He almost killed me last week. He’s busy designing new masochistic workouts for us, and I love every sweaty, tortured minute of it. It feels divine to push my body to its limits and shove Miss Prissy aside while the sweat pours off of me and I just let it all go. God, I love that feeling. I adore being driven, and I love letting Coach lead the way. I trust him completely with my fitness regimen.
Performing physically and actively – not just enduring it – takes me to a nearly spiritual place. I’m not sure if I can explain it well, but it feels like the satisfied exhaustion after fabulous, draining sex. When you’ve strained and stretched every muscle in your body and climaxed with screaming pleasure, and then you collapse in a heap, utterly worn out in such a remarkably pleasant way, unable to move for awhile – simply basking in the afterglow of feeling sore in a “good way.”
Maybe that’s why I haven’t been obsessing too much about the absence of sex in my life lately (although I do feel that familiar tug in my groin regularly, believe me). And why I come back from the gym with a rosy glow that incites comments that I seem extraordinarily happy lately. Hmm…