The Gym. I tell myself. Go to the Gym
Some days, I don't go.
I don't go because my cowardice tramples me, even as I try to lift my spirit from its knees. It only keels over. It sways off to the side and hits the earth with a silent, beaten thud. It looks up at the stars. They're stars that dribble across the sky.
Days like that, the self doubt interferes. It sticks its fingers into everything and tears it open. It all comes apart, and I loathe myself for waiting this long to get into shape. I despise myself for taking the easy options night after night. A hatred is wound up and won't let go in me. It hacks at my spirit and brings it to its knees, next to me. It coughs and suffocates as my own hatred for myself becomes overwhelming.
Go, I tell myself.
Most days I do. I surrender completely.
I work slowly at first, and then harder and harder, feeling the self doubt trickle down my face and dampen my shirt.
When I'm done, I retreat to the locker room and stare into the mirror. My heart applauds inside my ears, first like a roaring crowd, then slows and slows until it's a solitary person, clapping with unbridled sarcasm.
Clap. Clap.
Clap.
Well done, Jacque.
You're still fat.
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