Holy shit. I actually worked out!

Alright, hold up. I should preface this by saying I have a very complicated, demanding, and profoundly sedentary job — one that requires constant focus, endless decision-making, and absolutely no physical movement above the wrist. It’s eight hours of cognitive acrobatics and physical paralysis that burns no calories whatsoever but efficiently consumes all of my will to live.

About four years ago, I decided to do something about it and got serious about fitness. But I should clarify what kind of “serious” we’re talking about: meticulously color-coded spreadsheets, a plain chicken-and-sad-vegetable diet, and the quiet belief that endorphins might fix your entire life — or at least make you forget what bread tastes like. My evenings became a regimented blur of elliptical miles, calorie math, and playlists designed to trick me into thinking I was thriving.

Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. But for a while, I sure looked like her.

This heroic burst of discipline was inspired by two humbling moments: reading a very compelling article about how my desk job was slowly killing me and being quietly handed a seatbelt extender on a plane (which, for the record, is the universe’s least subtle form of weight-loss intervention.)

Fueled by equal parts shame and survival instinct, I spent an hour or more on my elliptical every night that I wasn’t out riding my bike, strength training, or finding new ways to turn dinner into a math problem. And, to be fair, it worked. I lost A LOT of weight and got genuinely fit. The downside was that my routine required monk-level asceticism and a diet so joyless it could have been a new form of martyrdom. I didn’t just get healthy; I treated fitness like a hostile takeover and measured my self-worth in macros and miles.

So (big shocker here) it turns out you can’t run on fumes forever. Eventually, the hunger, the exhaustion, and my life staged a full-blown coup. First came additional work stress, then an unexpected layoff, then — for reasons still unclear — I started a second master’s degree. Throw in a few additional curveballs, and before long I was ghosting kale and letting my job reclaim its slow, crushing dominance over both my schedule and my glutes.

One skipped workout became two, then three, and suddenly I was back to being exhausted from sitting all day and pretending that pacing while biting my nails between meetings counted as steps.

As you might imagine, not working out regularly for the last two years has taken its toll. While I haven’t put most of the weight back on (and to everyone who smugly predicted I would — hi) or completely lost all of the proverbial “gains”, I am undeniably out of shape.

I’ve tried to reboot a few times — brief bursts of motivation that usually last through half a dozen protein shake-fueled workouts, followed by six months of “active recovery” and snack-based reflection. But this time feels different. Maybe it’s because I’ve signed up to climb a mountain and am finally accepting that the training won’t do itself. Or maybe I just hit that magical point where getting off my ass seems like less work than continuing to feel bad about not getting off my ass.

Either way, the fact that I brushed a thick layer of dust off the elliptical in my office last night and actually used it might come as a surprise to everyone — especially me. For the past two years, this thing has existed primarily as modern art: a sleek, minimalist installation titled “Intentions (Unrealized).”

But I digress.

The workout itself was straightforward enough: five minutes of warm-up, twenty-five minutes of sustained hill climbing, and a five-minute cool-down.

Of course, nothing about my preparation was straightforward. I haven’t bought workout clothes in a while, which means my athletic wardrobe represents a fascinating cross-section of past lives, poor decisions, and a myriad of size options (none of which I currently am). After conducting a fairly extensive archaeological dig through my closet, I emerged wearing what could best be described as an ensemble: a sports bra with the structural integrity of a used Kleenex, a t-shirt large enough to double as emergency shelter, and leggings committed to a slow but determined escape toward my ankles.

Still, I got myself moving — against all odds, physics, and common sense — and I finished. No breaks, no meltdowns, and only one existential question about my life choices around minute twenty-two, when the elliptical asked me to pedal backward on a 21.8% incline. Other than that, it was thirty-five uncensored minutes of me, unhinged breathing, and a workout app spewing a steady stream of theoretical advice and toxic positivity:

Use good form.

Keep your posture tall.

You’ve got this!

Position your hands as if you’re using hiking poles.

You are .05% done!

(Bitch, please. I’m just trying not to eject myself through the drywall.)

Around minute twenty, I hit what I can only assume athletes refer to as the zone — that magical space between resolve and regret where you realize you’re too far in to quit but not close enough to justify existing, and you start to hallucinate. I kept going, powered purely by spite, inertia, and the awareness that stopping would mean trying to explain myself to a smug digital trainer who may or may not offer me a seatbelt extender.

After thirty-five minutes, according to the combined authority of my elliptical, Apple Watch, and smug AI coach, I had burned somewhere in the neighborhood of 422.3 calories and climbed the equivalent of about 350 vertical feet. I celebrated with some wildly optimistic stretching.

Dinner was small and virtuous — the kind that includes a hearty serving of self-righteousness and briefly tricks you into believing you own matching workout gear and have your shit together.

That glow of accomplishment lasted until my body filed a formal complaint and reminded me that you can’t out-discipline hunger. At 3:48 am, all that effort found me hovering over a slab of sourdough slathered in butter, hissing at any sign of movement and muttering, “We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious.”

Somewhere, my digital trainer quietly whispered:

You’ve got this.

I responded, “Master is our friend.”

Whelp, you live and you learn… I’ve realize I need to eat like a normal human being after working out if this is ever going to be sustainable.

Fast forward to this morning:

I have discovered that sitting is no longer something I do — it’s more of an uncontrolled descent where I simply fall backward into a chair. (Pro tip: don’t attempt this with an office chair on wheels.)

Standing, meanwhile, has evolved from a basic human function into a full-body negotiation with a soundtrack. My knees sound like bubble wrap, and every step is an emotional experience — mostly grief.

And tonight? Strength training.
Because apparently, this is who I am now.

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Progress Report (Generously Defined)

Category	Status
Training log	1 session completed, 0 nervous breakdowns, and the shoes and sports bras I ordered have finally shipped!
Vertical gain	Estimated at 350ft (give or take)
Calories burned	422.3 — promptly reclaimed through the strategic application of buttered sourdough.
Fueling strategy	Equal parts caffeine, misplaced confidence, and butter-based reparations.
Outlook	optimistic sore I am a feral carb-seeking missile.