I friggin hate to exercise.
There is no person in this entire world that hates it more than me. I used to exercise in the morning. I would roll out of bed, put my workout clothes on, pee (I know, TMI), grab a huge glass of water, and hop on the treadmill...where I would begrudgingly walk, groan, sweat, and hurl swear words in my head.
I freakin hated it.
Then, one day, I decided that morning exercise was bullshit.
You see, I am SO FAR AWAY from being a morning person it isn't even funny. So, I decided that maybe I would be a less vulgar exerciser if I "worked it" in the evening.
Bad call, Sally C.
You see....I hate to exercise. Did I say that already?
So, in the evenings, I found every excuse in the book NOT to get on that damn treadmill. Oh, I don't have time right now, I have to do laundry, pay bills, shave my legs, scratch my ass...whatever. You get my point, right? Because I KNOW that I can not be the ONLY PERSON in this world who angrily flips off the treadmill while actually walking it. Si? No? Okay than...maybe I am.
Anyway, my point is this. I HATE TO EXERCISE (I DON'T HAVE ALZHEIMER'S AND YES, I KNOW I'VE ALREADY TOLD YOU THIS). But, I hate feeling like a big steaming pile of dog dump even more. Lately, my back hurts. My heart hurts. My legs hurt. And I am just tired of it. Seriously. I am PISSED at myself. I'm only 40 years old! WTF?
So, this morning, I did it. I made up my mind. I got out of bed and headed for the treadmill and worked it out. I sweat like a beast, I swore like a truck driver, I walked through the pain in my back and in my legs, and I did it. When it was over, I felt good...really good.
Funny story though....
While I was huffing and puffing on the treadmill from hell, I was watching a show called Teen Cribs on MTV. Have you seen this shit? Talk about making you feel like you live in a hut, for the love of God!
Anywho, the episode I saw featured two spoiled teenagers giving the viewer a tour of their seventy thousand quadrillion square foot house in Atlanta, GA. It had a home theater, a spa, a hair salon, a big mutha pool, jacuzzis (yeah, like SEVERAL), an outside hibachi grill room, a ballroom, and a Moroccan room.
Cuz you know...everyone needs a Moroccan room....
And then we, the common folk, were introduced to their parents, their masseuse, their nail salon technician, their hairdresser, their house manager (DUDES! THEY HAVE A FRIGGIN HOUSE MANAGER!), and their personal chef (OK...THEY CAN JUST BITE ME ON THIS ONE). And you know what I was thinking the whole time I was sweating my ass off on the treadmill and watching this shit?
I was thinking that even thought I am grateful for my life, and my faith, and my family, and my health---I don't want to hear that philosophical crap about money not making people happy.
Those people in that house getting their asses rubbed by their personal masseuse? They looked p-r-e-t-t-y damn happy.
I don't know who coined the term, "Money can't buy happiness."
But, I know one thing.
It must have been some dumbass who's piss poor.