You know what I hate? Exercise.
I know it’s not nice to hate, and I can practically hear my mom’s gentle scolding at me even using the “h” word. But I’m just gonna put it out there, y’all.
I hate exercise. It hurts my chest with all the extra effort needed to simultaneously move around and breathe. It also makes me feel twice as hungry throughout the day, and – perhaps the biggest problem – it absolutely wrecks my hair (Can I get an “Amen,” sistas?).
Yet, I’m not getting any younger. And these donuts aren’t getting any lighter. Something’s gotta give.
I’ve been walking a bit here and there. Taken group classes here and there. Dieted for a few straight hours here and there. But after taking a minute to build up to it, I ran for 1 nonstop mile.
Guys, this is huge. I’m a girl that doesn’t run. Not even if I’m being chased. But I did it. ME!
Now, when I say “run,” I don’t mean sprint. Maybe to some people it wasn’t even a speed-walk. But I don’t care. If I can move, lifting both feet off the ground between steps, then damn it, I ran. Helena Carlo, the Mom, the myth, the legend.
I’m posting the photo of my Olympic moment for proof and posterity purposes. Take a good look, loveys.
Sure, I’m being lured on by the promise of a cake just in front of my face, but no matter.
I know it’s not nice to hate, and I can practically hear my mom’s gentle scolding at me even using the “h” word. But I’m just gonna put it out there, y’all.
I hate exercise. It hurts my chest with all the extra effort needed to simultaneously move around and breathe. It also makes me feel twice as hungry throughout the day, and – perhaps the biggest problem – it absolutely wrecks my hair (Can I get an “Amen,” sistas?).
Yet, I’m not getting any younger. And these donuts aren’t getting any lighter. Something’s gotta give.
I’ve been walking a bit here and there. Taken group classes here and there. Dieted for a few straight hours here and there. But after taking a minute to build up to it, I ran for 1 nonstop mile.
Guys, this is huge. I’m a girl that doesn’t run. Not even if I’m being chased. But I did it. ME!
Now, when I say “run,” I don’t mean sprint. Maybe to some people it wasn’t even a speed-walk. But I don’t care. If I can move, lifting both feet off the ground between steps, then damn it, I ran. Helena Carlo, the Mom, the myth, the legend.
I’m posting the photo of my Olympic moment for proof and posterity purposes. Take a good look, loveys.
Sure, I’m being lured on by the promise of a cake just in front of my face, but no matter.
I will also acknowledge that the photo is a bit blurred. Poorly lit. A tad grainy. Similar to a snapshot of an apparition. Or Bigfoot. Or Nessie. But this is my proof.
I came.
I ran.
I ate a massive slice of that cake. (What? I told you, exercise makes me hungry.)
