Roadkill Seeks Motivation
'Tis the day after methotrexate. With less hormonal activity, I am not a walking (and sleeping) zombie. In fact, I did two loads of laundry before 8 a.m., and submitted a rough draft of some writing to my boss.
By 8:30 a.m., I hit the gym for my daily PT. This is a rather graceless act post-meds. My regular gym bag is a white cotton bag that has my keys, phone, radio, Ace bandages, tissues, and pads in it. The basics. It also has a wadded-up barf bag of one variety or another. A little vomit doesn't have to get in the way of some truly good lifting - well, not mine, anyhow. I have learned to save items that might be useful, so today I snatched from the broom closet an old promotional trick-or-treat bag from that atrocious movie, The Incredibles. They have henceforth been named The Chunks.
My little white bag sits next to the bench where I have selected my dumbbells for the morning: 2 ten pounders, 2 twelve pounders, and 2 twenty pounders. I am one step over now, staring at myself balancing and straining in the mirror, feet shoulder-width apart as my shoulders and delts work. Between my feet sits the unfurled, waiting The Chunks bag. This is far more subtle than when I used to drag the big gray trash cans from their regular locations to wherever I was working out.