I can think of very few things that I like less than long cardio sessions. It’s like a trip to the dentist in that it’s good and good for you, but not fun in any way. Actually, that’s a terrible metaphor. If it was like a trip to the dentist, I’d just punch the dentist in the face and settle for dentures. As it turns out, there are no “body dentures,” so off to the torture chamber I go. In fact, I’d rather fornicate with a bobcat in a phone booth than run ten feet, and the “low impact” elliptical trainer is like some medieval device of death when set on cardio program number 3. All in all, I’d say my attitude this morning is similar to a prisoner en route to a forced labor camp in the desert of Arizona. I only got out of bed because it sucks worse to be huge and fat that it does to be exercising at this hour of the day.
Some people practice meditation to relieve the stress. Some people exercise with their Ipod, and that seems to help. When I get on the maniac machine of death and start churning and burning, only one thing keeps me going. My happy place.
“Happy place?” you ask. Yes. I know that it’s psychotic existential nonsense, and yet it’s strangely comfortable for me to imagine myself frolicking carelessly in the sunshine with tiny dancing elves in a field of dandelions or riding a unicorn along a magical beach of wonder. The weather is always a perfect 75 degrees, and there isn’t a tread mill in sight for miles. So, if you see me riding on the elliptical trainer with a strange, oddly calm, slightly retarded look on my face, I’m probably playing battleship with Al Pacino….at least in my mind. That’s how I get through my workout. What’s your secret?