I just finished working out and I keep coming to the same conclusion: I hate fucking working out. I fucking hate it.
It’s not one of those things that I dread doing, but then enjoy once I am mid-stride or mid-squat. I don’t suddenly, when I’m jogging on the treadmill, look over at my fellow treadmill partners, smile, and feel a great sense of euphoria—as if we are all walking through a field of lilies and tulips.
At best, I have NWA blasting in my ears and I get into somewhat of a beast-mode, but in an Angela Davis way and not a Jane Fonda Way. I look at the white, blond, 28 year old, size 2 chick next to me and decide that she won’t out-run my Black-middle aged ass. No sir, I ain’t going out like a sucker. My workout session becomes a statement, a war. I ’m running for my people. It hurts; I’m miserable, but I will FIGHT THE POWER!
Elvis was a hero to most
But he never meant shit to me you see
Straight up racist that sucker was
Simple and plain
Mother fuck him and John Wayne
Cause I’m Black and I’m proud
I’m ready and hyped plus I’m amped
Most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps
Sample a look back you look and find
Nothing but rednecks for 400 years if you check
Don’t worry be happy
Was a number one jam
Damn if I say it you can slap me right here
(Get it) lets get this party started right
Right on, c’mon
What we got to say
Power to the people no delay
To make everybody see
In order to fight the powers that be
Fight the Power!
But most days, it’s just me counting reps or minutes. It’s the first time that I’ve ever shown some proficiency with my math: 30 minutes = just 10 minutes 3 times, or 3 minutes 10 times, or 15 minutes twice. I can do this! I can do 15 minutes 2 times! Psychology also comes into play. For instance, I can’t do 8 more reps unless I count backwards. I don’t know why, but you get to 12 and getting to 20 seems impossible. You switch that equation to 8 more, 7 more, 6 more, you got me.
And where is the hell is the Emerald City of Euphoria these fools keep talking about at the end of the Yellow Brick Exercise road? I don’t feel endorphins at the end of working out. I feel sore and sweaty, sometimes nauseous. The only positive feeling is that I’m happy that it’s over.
So, I know you workout enthusiasts will chirp (yea—I said chirp), “you just haven’t found the right exercise for you.” I’ve tried a lot of them. I will admit I hate some far less than I hate others. I actually somewhat like some, but understand there are at least 720 things that I would rather do than do even my favorite exercise.
I’d just like a little honestly in the exercise industry and from those of you who are lucky enough to love exercise (by the way, I hate you too). I think many folks don’t workout because they feel as if they weren’t cut out for it cause they aren’t walking around giddy like some of you make us feel as we should. For some of us, working out sucks, but we do it anyway. We do it because we like the benefits? I’d like to live longer, be healthy and while I’m alive –since I’m being totally honest –I’d like to be nail-biting, toe-curling, hush-yo-mouth fine for as long as I can in and out of my clothes.
My intention is for Black people to love themselves and each other. It sounds somewhat silly, I guess; but oftentimes my people are overwhelmed with negative images, bad news, and stereotyped characters about us. I’d like to flip that script. I’d like to remind us, as often as I can, how incredible we are. Read more