Why I’m Done Working Out.


Yup, you read that right.

I’m done “working out.”

Now don’t go get your resistance bands in a tizzy.

Of course I want to exercise.

It’s the phrase “working out” that gives me anxious vibes.

‘ll be totally fine until someone says, “Hey girl, you wanna work out?”

You may as well stab me with my own underwire bra.

I’m over it.

Yes I have baby weight to get rid of…so what if the baby in question is my oldest…and she’s 22…

Mind your business.

“Working out” reminds me of how much I suck at it.

I have about as much disdain for the phrase “working out” as the word moist, ew.

To me, “working out” means gym, and I don’t need a hot guy in tight shorts yelling at me to squat deeper.

Wait a minute…that’s exactly what I need.

Let’s move on.

“Working out” screams cutesy work out clothes in which I don’t have, and most importantly lack the desire to go out and buy.

Even if I managed to get to a store, don’t mention anything to me about going in a dressing room because I will hurt you. Seriously.

So what do I do?

This stomach isn’t gonna just go away, (thank you freakishly large babies).

My goal is movement.

To dance.

To lift.

To jump.

To stretch.

I’m not “working out”, I’m intentionally embracing what my body was made to do.

So whether it’s outside, in a gym, with a group, by myself, or via zoom, I’ll exercise my way.

On my own pace.

Not in a cutesy outfit.

I’ll continue to rely on my¬†wide variety of free promotional t-shirts to fit the bill.




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