Exercise, Shmexercise

Thirty minutes of exercise a day is not a lot.  In fact, it's nothing in the grand scheme things.  Shoot, I spend 30 minutes typing on this blog some mornings.  A half hour flies--it really does.  I get home, I put on my work out clothes and either head outside to walk or jump on our elliptical.  No biggie, right?  Easy stuff, huh?

So why did the thought of doing either one of those things last night make me turn into a whiny four year-old, complete with foot stomping and pouting?  Eh, who knows.  Blame it on Monday.  Blame it on an exhausting weekend that I haven't recovered from.  Blame it on my soar throat (Dear, pollen, i hate you).  Blame it on the rain (Milli Vanilli, that one's for you...), I don't care.  But it wasn't happening.  

Now the guilt has set it.  I should have done something.  I should have picked my lazy butt up off the couch and traded my comfy blue sweat pants (the ones I adopted from Steven once we moved in together) for something more workout appropriate.  I should have made myself sweat and made my heart rate increase.  Woulda, shoulda, coulda.  And Guilt will force me to work out tonight.   It is Guilt that will push me out that front door, sneakers on, iPod playing, into the heat.  It is Guilt that reminds me that the scale is waiting, laughing.  I hate that guy!  And I want him to say I dropped another pound this week.   

So tonight I will erase last night.  One step, one mile, one pound at a time.