I worked out at 9pm last night. This is simultaneously a failure and a triumph. A failure because I was supposed to work out at 6am and a triumph because I eventually got it done.
For the last month, I’ve been working on being consistent. In everything. Exercise, French, writing, … This is not something that comes naturally to me. In fact, I suck at it.
Even after a month, when the alarm goes off on Sunday mornings, the very first thought I have is, how can I get out of playing tennis this morning? And it doesn’t matter how much fun I had playing tennis the previous Sunday and the Sunday before that. I always want to skip it for another hour in bed. But I don’t do that anymore. I bitch and moan, kick and scream, shriek into the pillow–and then I climb my lazy ass out of bed, sulk all the way to the tennis court, then have myself a really good time playing tennis.
Same with writing and French. Doing them with any regularity is a massive undertaking. But I’m always happy after I get them done.
I’ve only been working at this change for a month, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. But maybe it will? Either way, I’m adamant now about not allowing “not feeling like it” to be an excuse for not doing something. I’ve been able to skate by in life thus far, but I’d like to be better. And really, how disappointing would it be if I wake up at 50, 60, 70 years old with the same flaws I have today? I think I would really regret that.