me frolicking in the grassNothing can sabatage a productive workout better than PMS. Not only is it my favorite excuse, but it’s also a handy way to rationlize doing a half-assed workout and then justify binging on burgers or ice cream because, well, what the hell, the workout sucked anyway.

PMS follows me around the gym like a nagging, negative girlfriend – undermining my good intentions with every step. The running dialogue goes something like this:

Me: Damn my boobs hurt, I’m going to sweat out all ths bloating on the elliptical trainer and I’m sure I’ll feel much better aftewards.

PMS: Don’t count on it

Me: I’m going to kick PMS’s ass!

PMS: I hate your arms in that t-shirt

ME: No one’s looking at me. This is MY workout. MY time.

PMS: God you’re tired

ME: It’s okay, I’ve already done 12 minutes on this thing, I’ve only got 18 minutes to go before I start working out arm.

PMS: 18 minutes? You’ll never make it, plus sweat is starting to run into your eyes and that can’t look very good.

ME: no….one….is….looking….

PMS: 18 minutes is quite enough on the elliptical. Let’s get to arms.

ME: Damn.

PMS: Tricep…curls…are….hard. (Did you see how perfect that girl looked in her spandex 3/4 length workout pants? You’ll never have an ass like that)

ME: I hate you

PMS: Let’s split and make up over a delicious ice cream sundae

ME: Well….I still have to do the butt blaster machine

PMS: Like hell you do

And there you  have it. I leave after 25 minutes of not really working out and replace the 85 calories I burned off with 600 calories of sugar and fat. Thanks, PMS.

PMS: Don’t mention it.