It’s that old accountability thing. The trim and peppy fitness trainer standing off to the side holding the timer as if it was the self destruct button on a starship, finger at the ready just in case we need to abort, abort…..yes, I need to stop holding the f…..ing plank.
And yet I go back. Time and again I subject myself to their unrelenting cheerfulness in the face of my suffering. And why? Because I have no discipline on my own. Without paying them for the privilege of torturing me with planks and burpees (who was the sadist who invented the burpee anyway?) I would spend my hour diligently pursuing the executive workout, in the hot tub.
As I said, it’s the old accountability thing. It comes from being a people pleaser. I am deeply averse to disappointing someone else. I want to please them, I want to make them happy. So if holding a plank makes someone happy I hold it.
I sometimes wonder what I might actually accomplish if being accountable to myself was enough. Maybe I should invest in a stop watch.
The burbee is probably a bastardization of the salutation to the sun. What does f…..ing mean?
this fitness game sound intimidating.
Planks – not for me – thanks! But do tell – what on earth is a burpee? My imagination is in overdrive!
I keep going back, not because I love submitting my body to what they demand of me, but because when I am finished I feel good that I can still do it. With aging I keep feeling less and less able, but still trying and mostly succeeding. I try not to feel bad that I can’t keep the plank as long as others, but amazed that I can keep it as long as I do-for my age.