I was going to work out today, I really was. I’ve been carrying my gym clothes around, and I was mentally prepared for it this morning. But then something happened. It might have been because I’ve had a wonderfully effective day up at riksarkivet from 9-18.30 (that’s the opening hours), where I’ve transcribed a nine pages long interview from gothic handwriting to machine, where I’ve read and included 20 interviews in my nifty database, and where i’ve written two pages of the chapter that needs to be written this week. It might be because I wanted to go home and write more, because weird and fun contradictions and agendas suddenly popped out of my source material and wanted me to write about them. It might be because it was 6 and a half hour since lunch and I had forgotten to bring any extra food. No matter what the reason was, I decided to go home, make myself some dinner and get some writing done before going to bed. I’ve gotten into a habit of doing an hour of marthe-yoga before going to bed every night, which helps a bit with the sleeping, and i told myself, very convincingly that that would suffice.
I headed home, searched the dustbins, floors and seats of the t-bane for newspapers, and managed to get through three of them on the way. Dagsavisen had a long article about how problematic it is that so many people start working out after new years, and then stop after a few months. «You don’t have to work out much, – start by going twice a week» said the random work out-expert in the paper.
First: whenever I have convinced myself that whatever I decide to do is good and right. The world shouldn’t feel the need to make some sarcastic comment about it.
Second: In what paralell universe is working out two times a week not much? What kind of lives do people have? Don’t they have hobbies, friends/family, jobs that for some reason never finish when the hours are up?