I'm officially back on my bike!
As the sting of my apparently-existing hamstrings starts to eat away at my Arty Brain (Arty Brain: a concept of being that prefers to lie on the couch watching telly/read a book/discuss an art movie/listen to 80s music) kicks in, I just remember a few things:
I want to be a friggin raging supermodel machine.
I will feel happy afterwards. Apparently there are little things called “endorphins” that kick in and make you feel super. Well I'm lacking clearly, because the only thing that used to make me feel instantly high and happy was A Grade pot. The Rastas will agree with me here, no doubt.
It means I can have super duper acrobatic sex.
And. I'll garner respect from those fitness freaks that tend to bombard me haphazardly during my weeks and make me feel like she who not only ate all the pies, but she who ate all the pies, the pie shop and Mrs Miggins. And bloody well enjoyed it.
Somewhere beneath the ruddy exterior of my thighs, there's a muscle screaming to come out.
PS: Like all habits, getting into a regular fitness routine takes five tries. Then you're in. You're part of the “I Exercise On A Regular Basis” club.
Smoking takes longer. And quitting makes you fat, psycho and dumb. Dumb because you have no idea where to put the hands. Fuck it. One thing at a time. Assholes.