A few weeks ago, or months ago – Hell, I can’t remember – I posted about working out and about how much I hate it. That, I’m afraid, hasn’t changed. I still hate it. I hate being sweaty. I hate the time it takes out of my day. And I hate that I feel guilty since Ross is stuck alone watching Scarlett while I’m making an ass of myself in the library. I know he doesn’t care but I still feel like I’m doing something wrong or that I’m somehow a bad mother.

Here’s the thing. I’ve put so much on the back burner, things that I love to do so that other people are happy. I’m not blaming anyone but myself. I made those decisions not to take time out to write, or workout, or just have some quiet time. But I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I can no longer put off or rationalize away my decisions regarding my health. I’m coming up on the big 40 and while my self-esteem is fairly healthy, I know I can be better.

As scheduling goes, my weekends aren’t much better. Scarlett and I usually do something fun; go to the zoo, the park, COSI. But then it’s back to the everyday obligations; laundry, meal prep, and grocery shopping (although I secretly love grocery shopping). So my weekends fill up before they’ve even begun and I’ve still done nothing for myself.

It doesn’t stop there. Ross and I put Scarlett before everything. As parents, that’s easy to do. However, we have to make time for us and right now, we’re not doing that. We make the excuse that we don’t have a regular babysitter and his work hours fluctuate which means that scheduling something regularly becomes almost impossible. That excuse isn’t good enough any more. If I can sweat and feel idiotic while doing plank jacks, then we can schedule a damned date.

I’ve put these things on the shelf but it didn’t mean I wasn’t pressuring myself to get them done.

Hey, when are you going to write that next book.

Hey, you just missed your self-imposed deadline . . . again. 

You shouldn’t eat the cupcake. You know that shit goes right to your ass.

You need to do this list of 1 million things this weekend. You know you weren’t planning on finishing that chapter anyway.

You know those floors won’t clean themselves. 

On and on it goes. I do this to myself. I pressure myself to be better and more productive than anyone on the planet. I wish I was exaggerating but I’m really not. I can’t do it though. I can’t keep up with my expectations for myself. With that much pressure some things have to fall by the wayside and I’m afraid that it’s me that’s getting left behind.

Working out is my first step. I don’t like it. I’ll never like it. But I know its worth the effort in the end. Trust me, I would much rather be reading a book or catching up on Outlander than sweating my ass off but I have to start somewhere. This is where I start.