Much to my dismay and my chagrin, after having slimmed down following graduation, no longer overdosing on the cheaper varietals of beer and wine and cocktails, and mostly avoiding greasy and delicious late night snacks of the Thai origin, I have found those extra frisky and mischievous pounds in the past months. I am not one to strictly exclude particular items from my diet, I love food entirely too much to endure that type of silly torture, but I had adopted an intense exercise regimen and would generally monitor caloric intake. Unfortunately, a hectic travel schedule throughout the late winter, spring, and summer has interrupted my normally pleasant and anticipated gym schedule. Occasionally, I would feel ambitious, thinking to myself I could pack running shoes and brightly hued sports bras and mesh athletic shorts to wherever I was headed next. This sentiment would quickly pass, as the reality of my luggage space limits and my stringent daily agendas set in. Needless to mention, travel, whether it be for business or for a weekend of pleasure, also leads to imbibing more wine and indulging in rich restaurant meals. Especially with my clients, and with my friends. So, bluntly, my colon is often displeased with me lately.
Thankfully, I am not one who dreads the gym; rather, I truly relish the opportunity to shut down after a day of work, take time that is purely for my enjoyment and benefit, and sweat silently, no one pestering me or attempting to socialize. My childhood and adolescence were passed as a three- and four-season athlete, so, I feel my happiest when I am challenging my muscles physically, when I move and run and push, syncing the flow of limbs with my heavy steady breathing and rhythmic heart beats. Still, once out of my exercise pace, though I love and long for it, I have difficulties rediscovering the pattern. Already, I have broken a few promises, made for and to myself, this summer, but my strategy is to stay optimistic. Being overly harsh a critic and disappointed in my own defeats fulfills no real purpose, and is not motivating. My bikini will still be around, ever loyal, next summer.
My gym garb generally consists of red lacrosse shorts from my alma mater, and either a black cotton camisole or a white wife-beater, or, for the politically correct inclined, a white ribbed male tank. My typically copious jewelry is left in my locker, where it belongs. While the fantasy of working out in excessive drippings of pearls and golden chains is an utterly ludicrous one, it is also a simultaneous portrait of decadence. An exuberance of ennui and idyllic pretense, usually associated with tedious housewives. She is a comic figure, but, in a way, also inspiring, with her fun and devil-may-care air. It may not pair well with my wife-beaters, but, I could certainly find a style or two in my wardrobe for that elaborate choker.
(image taken from Nasty Gal)