I was thinking about being motivated, staying positive and all that rubbish the other day and I came to a realization about myself. I hate being motivated. I'm not motivated by motivation. I'm motivated by motives, certainly. Vanity, as previously discussed, is a major motive. Fear of cardiac arrest before turning 50 is another. Basic self-respect is in there somewhere. But the happy, sunshine-up-my-ass "staying motivated" isn't a me-thing.
The reality is I'd rather be sitting on a deck drinking beer or a bottle of Riesling, or stiletto shopping, or eating a barrel of potatoes, or dying my hair or really doing any of my normal hedonistic activities, but not working out. Not drinking another protein shake. Not swallowing another chicken breast. The brutal truth is this - I do it because there's no other option. There's no pill (trust me on this - I've looked into the pharma-angle) and I can't afford surgery or a regular cocaine habit.
As Bill Maher put it so succinctly, "Ask you doctor if getting off your ass is right for you." I'm off my ass because I have to be, not because I WANT to be. And yes, the endorphin and adrenaline surge helps make up for the grueling pain and panting and wheezing in the moment, but you must realize, lovelies, that all biological pleasure is for a reason. Procreation, for example. If sex was menial and even mildly painful, we'd have died off eons ago.
So, we get a little happy feeling after we almost have a heart attack. I am neither fooled nor impressed. Because it wears off. And left behind is PAIN. Like oh-crap-I-have-to-pee-but-that-means-getting-up-so-I-guess-I'll-get-a-bladder-infection-instead-pain. Costco-sized Ibuprofen-pain. Can't-wear-stilettos-pain.
Another non-motivator is sweat. I've never been a fan in general, but dripping from places that should not be dripping is out-right humiliating. Why does my ass need to sweat? Can't it be re-routed to a normal sweat place, please? Getting off one of the medieval contraptions I have to shove around, only to leave a wet impression of my butt on the seat is no way to make me think highly of this business. And there is no way, especially as a red-head, to sweat and look sexy. I go beet red from the neck up, and look like I'm either suffering from heat-stroke, or imitating a freshly cooked lobster. Combined with the beads of sweat, the lack of breath, and the muttered cursing, this is simply not a pretty picture. Oh, and the sweat stained ass crack on my yoga pants that are now sticking to me in places that cause yanking and twisting in a most unattractive manner. My mid-workout mannerisms make Elaine from Seinfeld's dancing look like a Janet Jackson routine.
But... the biggest cause of ill-will toward my trainer, the machines, and skinny people in general is plain old lack of results. Or evident results. Remember when I was excited about losing 6 pounds? Scale was off, it was only three. And I have since gained all three back. Trainer says "It's muscle, that's a good thing." Oh reaaalllly? A good thing? I almost threw the scale through the mirror (hoping for a Labyrinth-like dream sequence), but refrained. I mean, if I don't lose weight, what the sweaty &$@# am I doing this for?
My reaction? Thirty minutes of cardio, everyday, no exceptions. No booze Monday to Friday. No eating out during the week. No cheating.
Finally, I get it. I'm motivated by anger. Whatever works.
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