If I don’t get up and go to the gym first thing in the morning, you can hang it up. I will absolutely talk myself out of it.
I’ll decide the floors desperately need mopping. I’ll suddenly remember a project I’ve been putting off for six months. I’ll convince myself today is the day to reorganize a closet, deep clean the bathrooms, or rearrange furniture I picked out on purpose the first time.
Or, and this is the real threat, I’ll accidentally get invested in The Real Housewives of Orange County.
Now that RHOC is back, Friday mornings are basically a hostage situation. I have to trick myself into only watching it on the treadmill. Otherwise, one episode somehow becomes Watch What Happens Live, and then the after show, and then a deep dive into whether Shannon and Heather are actually fine or just performing fine. Before I know it, my workout never happened and I’m an expert in reunion drama I didn’t ask to know.
Some mornings I know that the second my feet hit the floor, I have to start getting ready for the gym. So instead, I stay in bed. I scroll TikTok. Just one more video. Then another. And another. That app should legally be required to ask “are you still avoiding your life?” every ninety seconds.
It doesn’t help that my husband, Mark, is one of those people who goes to the gym every morning like clockwork. He’s actually grumpy if he misses a workout, which is the most foreign concept to me. I negotiate with mine like it’s a hostage exchange.
I Keep Waiting to Become One of Those Women
I’ve finally accepted that I’m never going to wake up excited to exercise. For years I’ve been waiting for the magical day I become one of those women who cheerfully announces, “I just love working out.” I’m starting to think that woman is a myth, like Bigfoot, or a clean car console.
Here’s the annoying part: halfway through every workout, I’m perfectly fine. Sometimes I’m actually pushing harder than I expected. I’ll add more weight. I’ll do one more set. I’ll surprise myself. Then I leave the gym feeling stronger than I did walking in.
So why is getting there the Olympic event?
The Lies I Tell Myself Before I’m Even Out of Bed
I’ve never once regretted going to the gym. I’ve regretted skipping it plenty. And yet every morning my brain runs the same sales pitch, fully committed, zero shame:
“I’ll go this afternoon.” (I will not.) “I didn’t sleep well.” “I have too much to do.” “I’ll start Monday.”
And my personal favorite, the closer, the one that’s never let me down: “My big toe hurts.”
Yes. My big toe. It has become such a reliable excuse that it’s practically a member of the household at this point. Apparently one mildly disgruntled toe has veto power over an entire workout.
Menopause Doesn’t Exactly Make This Easier
In my twenties, I skipped workouts because I didn’t feel like exercising. In my fifties, my body files a formal grievance before I’ve even stood up. Some mornings my joints ache before my feet hit the floor. I feel stiff. Heavy. Some mornings I genuinely don’t recognize the body looking back at me, like it got swapped out overnight by someone with a grudge.
Arthritis certainly isn’t helping matters.
And I know that once I start moving, my joints almost always feel better. Exercise loosens everything up, improves my mood, and reminds me my body is still capable of more than I give it credit for. But convincing myself to move when everything already feels like it’s held together with duct tape and spite? That’s a battle I fight fresh every single morning.
The Projects That Suddenly Become Emergencies
It’s amazing how productive I become specifically to avoid the gym. I’ll suddenly decide today is the day to mop every floor in the house. Not just mop. Deep clean. Move the furniture. Vacuum underneath it. Dust the baseboards while I’m already down there ruining my knees for a different reason.
Mark calls it “rearranging the house.” He’s not wrong.
Or I’ll spend an hour researching a new dinner recipe, drive to the store for fifteen ingredients I’ll use exactly once, and somehow convince myself that grocery shopping counts as cardio.
The best part? I’m usually doing all of this in my workout clothes. Apparently getting dressed for the gym and going to the gym are two entirely separate hobbies.
Meanwhile, Mark Is…
Mark doesn’t negotiate. He doesn’t hold committee meetings in his head. He doesn’t spend forty five minutes scrolling TikTok debating whether today is really the day. He gets up. He gets dressed. He goes. Repeat.
Meanwhile I’m lying in bed convincing myself one more video is completely reasonable, because once I stand up, I legally have to go to the gym. Those are the rules. I don’t make them. I just obey them at 6:47 a.m. under duress.
And on the mornings it doesn’t work out that way, when the toe wins, or Housewives wins, or TikTok simply refuses to let go of me, Mark comes home from the gym, sees me still parked on the couch in yesterday’s workout clothes, right in the middle of a Tamra and Shannon showdown. He walks in, sweaty, endorphins practically radiating off him like a golden retriever who just got back from a run, and finds me exactly where he left me two hours ago: same spot on the couch, same blanket, Tamra and Shannon still hashing it out on the screen in front of me, and just says, “Big toe again?”
He doesn’t even say it mean. That’s the worst part. He says it the way you’d greet an old friend, like my toe has a recurring guest spot on our marriage. My reply is always some version of “I’m going later.” And like a dance we’ve danced a hundred times before, he just tilts his head slightly and says, “Oh Lord.”
Not “you’re so lazy.” Not “you should really go.” Just a mild, sweaty, freshly showered observation, delivered with the quiet confidence of a man who has never once negotiated with his own toe.
Some mornings that’s exactly the nudge I need: mild, silent, accountability shaped like Mark is apparently more effective on me than any amount of talking myself into it. Other mornings I just wave him off and watch one more segment out of pure spite, which, if you think about it, is its own kind of cardio.
How I Outsmart Myself
Since motivation clearly isn’t coming to save me, I’ve had to build systems instead.
The big one: go first thing in the morning. If I don’t, the odds of it happening later drop to roughly the odds of Mark voluntarily watching a Housewives reunion.
I save Housewives for the treadmill, bribery basically. I tell myself I’ll only stay thirty minutes. I put on my workout clothes before my brain has time to file an objection. I commit to three days a week, feelings not required.
I’ve realized something important: I’m not motivated. I’ve simply built habits that outmaneuver my lack of motivation. There’s a big difference, and honestly, the habits deserve more credit than they get.
The Truth I Hate Admitting
Exercise works. Every single time. I have never once walked out of the gym wishing I hadn’t gone. I feel stronger. I sleep better. My mood improves. Even my arthritic joints complain less.
And yet every single morning, my brain tries to convince me that today is somehow the exception.
Tomorrow I’ll probably wake up and negotiate with myself all over again. I’ll think about Housewives. I’ll consider cleaning a bathroom that isn’t even dirty. I’ll scroll TikTok longer than planned. And then, hopefully, I’ll trick myself into putting on my tennis shoes anyway.
Because apparently that’s who I am now: a woman who doesn’t love going to the gym, but absolutely loves how she feels after she leaves.
I don’t get it right every week. Some weeks the toe wins two mornings out of five and Mark gets to say his little line more than I’d like. But if you’re reading this in bed right now, in the middle of negotiating with yourself, doing the math on whether one more episode counts as cardio, I’m not going to tell you it gets easier. I’m just going to tell you to get your sneakers on. Go.
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