Pizza Is Better Than Exercise

I keep wondering if I’m ever going to like working out.

Or, at the very least, to stop hating it so much.

You know those people who bounce around in $124 lululemon stretchy shorts and say things like, “I love working out!” or “I have to exercise every day or I feel totally gross!,” or “I ran an extra four miles this morning just for fun!”

I hate those people. Also, I think they might be liars.

If you happen to be one of these liars: Shut up already. We get it. You shudder at the idea of binge-watching tv for seventeen hours straight and the thought of gluten makes your skin crawl.

No problem. More pizza for me.

You love breaking a sweat and probably do it without a single hair falling out of place. In fact, your sweat is probably more of a “glisten,” adding a bright, healthy glow, while mine is like someone hung me by the ankles and dipped me into a vat of liquid funk.

(Disclaimer: I don’t mean “funk” like the good kind, like the “bring in da noise, bring in da funk” funk. Just to be clear.)

Basically, while you and your perfect, non-sweaty hair look like this at the gym:

mind-my-gap-7I look more like this:

funny-animal-memes-006-012

I mean, working out is awful, right? Can’t we all just agree on that? Mr. Literallynuts and I have been exercising regularly for about two months now, and I’ve been waiting for that moment while I’ll be in the middle of a particularly gruesome workout and suddenly – BAM! – like magic, all my homicidal visions of burning down the gym will fade away and will be replaced by images of toned kittens and puppies. I’ll think, “Man, I love when sweat covers my eyeballs and I can’t see!” or “Feeling like I’m going to pass out in a pile of my own vomit is the BEST!”

Alas, this hasn’t happened. Instead, I continue to hate working out for literally every moment that it’s occurring. I hate the idea of it, I hate driving to it, I hate completing it, and I even hate that moment afterwards when my husband’s like, “Great job!”

Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me, actually, until the gym and the horror that happens there is behind us and I’m safely on my couch. I’m sore and I plan to watch at least fourteen hours of uninterrupted S.V.U.

I worked out for, like, twenty minutes. If that doesn’t earn me sixteen donuts and a week of television in bed, I don’t know what will.