My Guilty Pleasure

Just take one look at me and guess what my guilty pleasure is.
That is correct. Working out is my guilty pleasure. There really is no guilt involved in this. I have no problem leaving my children to fend for themselves for the 90 minutes that my work out takes me away from home, semi annually.
After all, they are teenagers, as well as the reason that my body needs constant upkeep.

The accordion like texture of my abdomen can only be attributed to the 60 lbs gained and lost 3 times to propagate my wee spawn who’s birth weights ranged from 8-10 lbs.
I was not thinking when I over fed the beasts en utero, that the fine giant heads of said offspring, (most specifically my 10 lbs son, born a toddler in need of a shave), would eventually need to be purged through an orifice which logic and any reasonable doctor would not have condoned attempting.
Nevertheless, it was done, but that’s not what we’re talking about, so let’s stay on task.

We are talking about my guilty pleasure of working out.
What could be better than pressurizing my thighs into lycra/spandex, donning a constricting sports bra and trying to squirrel away the rest of the chaos under a giant t-shirt?

Euphoria builds once in costume and I head into the rancid, over crowded facility, where teenagers text while lounging on weight machines, coffee-klatsches congregate around treadmills, malodorous men sweat, burp, and flatulate while riding the stationary bikes, and last but not least, in the free weights section are the loud, attention seeking, attractive and fit show offs.

Of course there’s also me. I’m trying to read while using the elliptical machine, but I forgot my reading glasses and can’t see a damn thing.
I’m going home. I’ll have a glass of red wine and a cupcake instead.


The Daily Post, Daily Prompt: Guilty Pleasures~<a href=”http://Grateful and Guilty“>Grateful and Guilty<a href=””>No Apologies</a>

3 thoughts on “My Guilty Pleasure

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