I think I read somewhere that it takes thirty days to establish a new habit. If that's the case, it looks like exercise is going to be a regular part of my life. That's right, people, six weeks and counting. Every day for the last month and a half I have walked on a treadmill, lifted weights, stretched impossibly tight hamstrings and glutes, and ticked off a hundred crunches on that damn inflatable ball. I haven't always made it to a mile; I haven't always pushed myself as hard as I could, and I certainly haven't eliminated all the crap out of my diet. (When celery tastes as good as McDonald's fries, we'll talk). But every day I have done something and that, in and of itself, is a miracle.
While this little milestone is encouraging,there is one small, teensy-weensy problem. I have yet to see much in the way of results. Scratch that. I do feel better. I think I have more energy. And I am starting to feel muscle springing up in my biceps - not anything Popeye would be showing off but, hey, he started somewhere, too. What hasn't happened yet is a visible change in the rest of my body. I know, I know. Rome wasn't built in a day; good things come to those who wait; patience is a virtue; don't give up; stay the course; everything worth having is worth waiting for. Words to live by. Then again, there's another saying from that wise philosopher, Tom Petty, that keeps going through my head.
The waiting is the hardest part.
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