It’s seven a.m. and everything hurts. My lungs burn like they are sucking sulfur with every wheezing breath. My legs are going oh so slow, barely pushing the pedals around and around. And if one more Katy Perry song plays overhead I swear to God I may kill myself, right here in this cesspool steeped with the rancid smells of rubber and grease and sweat.
Yet, somehow I make it. After twenty minutes my pedals slow, bobbing and swaying as I dismount the elliptical machine. I wobble when I hit the mat, my legs barely holding me steady as I gather my things and head into the locker room.
I pull my pants up around my midsection. A roll of fat spills over the top like pastry dough from a can. They say it gets easier, but Day Two is even harder than the last. Twelve more weeks to go.