It is widely known and well-documented how much I truly hate working out.
(See: here ...um, here ...and, oh... here, too)
To summarize, the thought of excercising generally brings about this type of facial expression:
Yeah. Pure joy, really.
But alas and alack, while my metabolism has been MORE than gracious to me, I'm not getting any younger.
I have no muscles. I am weak. I am unhealthy.
Chick's gotta do some movin' or it's all downhill from here.
So what do you do when you hate the thought of joining a big stupid gym with confusing machines and judgy, judgy eyes?
You take the stairs, my friend. You take the stairs.
I live in a building with a lot of stairs. 15 floors, I think.
So I'm making use of what's right in my home.
I'm just starting out, so there hasn't been much to speak of yet. But I'm feeling it. And I know that running up, up, up and down, down, down as much as possible will be a lot better than the sitting, sitting, sitting, and eating, eating eating that I do.
I'm hoping that, in time, my ass will be so toned and lifted that it'll be reachin' for my neck.
(Yeah, I realize that made no sense. So?)
And if I ever want to travel and excercise on the go, I'll just borrow the Bluth Family Stair Car.