I know what you're thinking. This isn't a New Years resolution thing.
Some of you may recall a column that ran over the summer in the Nouvelle which focussed on my workout trials and triumphs with our then-editor Tanya Kostiw, as we struggled to balance our working lives with our reluctant ambitions to be more fit and active.
We dragged ourselves out of bed at the unnatural hour of 8 a.m. to workout for quite a few weeks, before switching to an afternoon routine that was doomed to fail, if only because there are so many better things to do than working out in the afternoon — like go for milkshakes or slurpees or just about anything at all, as long as there were sugar and calories involved.
Then Tanya left Bonnyville for a new opportunity in the big city and my resolve, without my trusty sidekick, withered like a milkshake in the hot, hot sun on Canada Day.
Also, I was really busy, I swear.
Since that column was swept under the rug, a few things have happened to make me feel a little badly about becoming so busy and unmotivated and addicted to deep fried foods.
First, a really nice Bonnyville resident told me she loved the Shape Up column and it motivated her because it was nice to see someone else who was trying to get fit and struggling with it the same way she was.
She said this as she laid a plate of deep fried mozzarella sticks in front of me at a restaurant, which deepened the guilt exponentially — though they were delicious.
Then I committed to meeting my friend in Miami to board a cruise ship destined for various tropical vacation islands in the Caribbean, which will obviously involve wearing, ugh, bathing suits, and, hurray, floppy sun hats. Prior to this, my only experience with tropical destinations has been watching the Pirates of the Caribbean movie over and over again.
So it really is just a coincidence that my workout regime has been renewed so close to the new year.
I cannot be held responsible because my free will has been hijacked and I have been forced into joining an intense and intimidating five-day-a-week, 6:20 a.m. workout class that will be forcing me from bed at that unthinkably early hour every single morning for the next five torturous weeks.
Like I said. Against my will.
But I've decided to treat this as an opportunity, rather than a torture session. On one hand, there is very little to do at 6:20 a.m. other than workout. And sleep, but I'm studiously not thinking about that. No one is running amuck selling milkshakes and the deep fried options are limited.
Also, 6:20 a.m. is a time in which I am nearly 100 per cent certain that work will not be calling me away from my commitment at the gym, because hardly anybody schedules their events that early. A fact for which I am eternally grateful.
So, for all that my friend and co-worker, Tamie, has dragged me into five mornings of torture with her a week, I have decided to do my very best to stick with it, stay motivated, stay hydrated, and not die. And who knows, maybe I'll dust off the Shape Up column and talk her into writing it with me.
We'll see how the first week goes.
