Tuesday, June 26

I am so ready to quit the gym.

Ah, but you saw this coming, didn’t you? Because my gym-going has never been consistent. It generally comes in three month bursts and then fades away the moment it’s warm out because I really believe that summer sweat burns away all and any errant calories.

Too bad I forgot this when I signed a year-long contract last fall. At the time I was convinced that the $60 automatically deducted from my account each month would be enough motivation to get me on a treadmill a few times a week. Reality check: I am paying a dollar a minute for an hour long yoga class every four weeks.

Pshaw. I don’t need the gym. I’ve got other things to occupy my time—and not just lazy things, but physical activity things!

We got a new dog about a month ago. Named Candy, she’s a 4-year-old American Fox Terrier/Chihuahua mix and was brought up from a pound in Kentucky where she was on death row. I adopted her for my mom as a present for mother’s day, from a private dog rescue through PetFinder.com. I can’t even begin to describe how much I freaking love the dog.

(Honestly, if you want a new dog do the adoption thing, don’t buy a $2500 puppy mill puppy from a PJs. I’m amazed at how well trained Candy is—she came housebroken, leash-ready, loves other animals, doesn’t beg—it’s tragic to think she was so close to being put down.)

So yes, when it’s the end of my work day, I think about the sweaty, crowded change room at the gym and the fact that I’ll have a choice between watching soaps or staring at someone’s back fat as I workout. Then I picture Candy jumping four feet in the air and licking my face before we run circles in the backyard and go for a long walk. The puppy always wins.

And when I’m not playing with her I’ve got another new favourite thing: bicycling. It’s just too convenient to go from store to bar to party to home to brunch to park on a bike, especially considering that summer traffic/construction makes going anywhere downtown a thirty minute ordeal or $15 cab ride. And I already feeling guilty enough for commuting out to the ‘burbs everyday—a drunken bike ride from cinq-a-sept to the boyfriend’s bed is the best way to counteract this.

Also related: The parking lot at my office has been colonized by a new company, causing RESERVED signs to appear on every good spot. This forces perpetually-late me to park very far away on the floor with no elevator service. But the dangerous hike up the down ramp every morning is treating my calves nicely.