I finally hit the gym today after an embarrassing hiatus (and by embarrassing I mean I worked out really hard for two months leading up to the Fourth of July, ate too much while visiting family in Texas, got unmotivated, then proceeded to exercise a grand total of three times between mid July and today. A few nights ago as we watched the Olympic marathon, I casually mentioned it’d be cool to train for such a thing. Joe gaped at me, snorted a bit, and in between my indignant rebuttals I remember hearing the words “lack” and “discipline” coming out of his mouth.).
Our apartment has a trainer who comes to the fitness center a few times a week to conduct spinning and weight lifting classes. Today, there wasn’t really anyone around, and after watching me hold planks and do a bunch of crunches, he offered to help me with my core workout. I left feeling sweaty, thirsty, and with muscles slightly worn from his instruction. All good things.
Any normal person would return home, take a nice relaxing shower, then eat a light, healthful supper to compliment their workout. And I did.
But then I started craving ice cream, like, really badly. I happened to be watching a show where a small town ice cream parlor was featured. Images of huge, fresh made waffle cones dripping with mounds of every flavor imaginable abounded. I envied those kids, happily lapping up the calories and crunching away at the cones. I wanted to smell that classic ice cream shop aroma: a mixture of vanilla and caramelized sugar and freezer burn. And then, all I wanted was a whole pint of PJ Madison’s Ramona Chocolate, or at the very least, some Amy’s Mexican Vanilla.
Our health conscious house doesn’t keep terrible, evil products like full fat ice cream around. So I had to settle for chocolate discs. El Rey, 58% cacao. I ate at least 10 of them, and let each one slowly melt on my tongue before I popped another in. If you ask me, it was the perfect compliment to my hour at the gym.