Do you ever wonder why you do the things you do?
It’s exactly what crossed my mind yesterday morning as my alarm went off at twenty-five to six and I stumbled down the stairs, to the car and then to the gym.
It’s my routine every weekday – gym, home, breakfast, work – and it has been for the past two or three years. What started as trying desperately to get into shape before my 30th birthday became something of an obsession.
Even when I tell myself that I’m not addicted and I can afford a day off I still find my exhausted legs swinging off the mattress and towards the stairs at the same time every morning.
As a final push to get myself in shape for our holiday I’ve stopped eating bread and pasta too.
The result of this is that I’ve spent the past six weeks dreaming of toast. While my mind used to wander to visions of health, wealth and happiness, all I see now when I close my eyes is a steaming slice of golden brown Hovis slathered with butter and Marmite.
I then start arguing with myself. It’s jolly amusing.
Surely one slice of toast – one slice of delicious melt-in-your-mouth toast with butter dribbling down my chin – isn’t going to result in me having to have all my trousers taken out by a couple of inches. I used to be big, though, as a child, as a teenager and as a 20-something, so to have finally achieved the thing I never thought I could in my 30s still seems like a miracle.
Maybe it’s because we spend so much time sat in front of screens these days that we have to get our exercise in other ways.
You certainly wouldn’t have seen people 500years ago getting up for a morning jog and turning down tasty fare for quinoa and bulgur wheat.
Still, I’m sure it’ll be worth it in the end… after I’ve had me some toast that is.