unchained.

There’s a beautiful integrity about pain associated with working out.  I mentally drag myself into stifling layers of clothing, walk twenty minutes through biting wind, kick off my Timbs and socks and prepare to check my thoughts at the door.  In a matter of seconds my Flushing-esque gangsta get-up is thrown off for a more breathable, and rather stretchy, shell of sports bra + loose tank + leggings.  Squishy mat.  Bare feet.  Stretching and flowing.  Hot room.  And everyone has an aluminum Sigg bottle.

I’ve been feeling a great deal more limber lately.  No more “I-scored-3″-on-my-V-Sit-test-in-high-school”.  Supple limbs.  Limber joints.  Better posture.  No judgment.  Having fun.  What an odd feeling.  Enjoying what I’m doing, even though I know the pain that will follow will nearly prevent me from changing out of my sweat-drenched clothes.  That’s another thing.  Sweat pouring out of every pore.  Relishing in the knowledge that my body is detoxing, ridding itself of negative feelings, fatty foods, and Ithacan stress.  Reveling in the idea that by breaking down my muscles, I am making them stronger.

Allowing in the brokenness and pain…to better accept the goodness of what follows.