Ok, your brother’s engagement party, while a beautiful event, is not conducive to one trying to stay in/get in shape in order to dunk. The food, the drink(s), the general state of pleasurable malaise that comes with this weekend has made me loath to get off my couch or even leave the house.
The excuses, yes, the excuses. They are many. I am in a city where I have no gym membership. I am in financial straits such that it would be a waste of money to spend some $15 for a day pass. I am entitled to a week off, especially after a week (actually, four days, but who’s counting) of exhausting workouts after a long period of inactivity. I just had two weeks of irregular sleep—one because my trip overseas threw off my biological rhythms, and the second after having to all of a sudden conform to a teacher’s early schedule again for a one week island of substitute teaching.
Pessimist that I am, I have calculated that this workout schedule designed to help me dunk has seen more off days than workout days—six to four. This statistic, this objective fact, inarguable, overwhelms me with guilt, and I promise myself to get right back on the workout horse come Monday.
At least until I think of another excuse.
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