This morning I had a bad case of idontwanttoworkoutitis – that is, I don’t want to work out – itis. To put it even more plainly – I didn’t want to freaking work out.

I didn’t sleep well. Stupid time change. Stupid fascist government trying to control time. My legs were sore from yesterday’s epic ice/snow/mud hike. Finally, I haven’t been eating well and I haven’t been eating enough. It all combined to put me into a nice, black funk.

But, I put on my big girl pants and sucked it up.

Dan John 40 Workout #12

Deadlift: 163# x 2 x 5
Press: 66# x 2 x 5 (felt great!)
Pullup: 3 x 3 strict with red band
Swings: 20 x 40#
Abwheel x 5

The deadlifts were ok. The presses felt great. The pull-ups sucked – barely eked out #3 in each set. I need to change something up there: maybe negatives, kipping, etc. The swings were ok, but I could have done at least five more. I psyched myself out and convinced myself I was tired. I was not that tired. Abwheels are abwheels. 

I had to go to a baby shower this afternoon and I ate abysmally. Ice cream (lots of it), eclair cake (hello, it’s an eclair AND a cake!), seven layer bars (with coconut, healthy!), and cold pizza for supper.

I love this food, but I hate this food. I take pleasure in it, but I know – I KNOW – it is slowly killing me. I’ve read the books, I listen to Robb Wolf, I read Mark’s Daily Apple. I know this stuff is poison. Yet, I can’t stop.

I’m a junkie. I might as well be injecting heroin into my veins.

My dad had heart disease. I lost count after eight bypasses. Stents. Artificial valves. I’ve seen the aftermath of that. I am familiar with the rib spreader. Yet, I continue to pump the poison into my body.

Three of my aunts have had cancer and Type II diabetes.

Yet, I keep eating insulin. I keep eating cancer. I keep eating diabetes. I keep eating triple bypasses.

Why? What do I get out of it besides a fleeting instant of pleasure and a guaranteed future of disease?


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