Today sucked.
Workouts are weird. They're like therapy, and just like therapy, sometimes they get you places you don't want to go. Today was one of those days where I wanted to cry, or puke, or maybe both. My workout was horrible. Sitting here now with my hands, my quads, and my knee hurting, maybe I should have quit. But I didn't. If not for my partner, I would have quit after the first round.
I've started doing this thing during my workouts when things get really hard. I count to 30 and repeat until my task is done. If it's a run, I'm counting steps. If it's rowing, I'm counting pulls. Always 30.
Ok, ok, I know what you're thinking: Kristin, this sounds like it's dancing awfully close to the line of OCD. You might be wrong. You might be right. That's a discussion for another time.
The St. Jude mom who spoke at the pasta dinner this past year talked about counting her steps during her training for the marathon. Her number was 152. That was the number of cancer treatments her child had received.
Counting serves two purposes. It focuses me on something other than the pain. It is also a reminder of what I'm doing.
My number is 30. 30 steps then a restart. 30 pulls. Depending on how I'm feeling about myself at the moment, it's either a promise of great things this year, or a reprimand of wasted years. I won't lie and say today was former. This week has been rough in that department. Some weeks are like that. It was recovery week, so physically things felt good. I really needed this recovery week. The emotional side was rough. Next week will be better.
30 chances to be better than the last step. 30 chances to reset. 30 chances to be the person you want to be. There's always another 30 around the corner.