I have a confession to make: I am an exercise addict.
I work out six days a week, like clockwork. Sometimes twice a day if I’m working on a specific skill like pull ups, double jumps or handstands.
Saturday is my rest day, 52 weeks a year (there are 52 total weeks in a year). I hate Saturdays.
I work out every single day on vacation. It doesn’t matter if I’m going to be active all vacation, as was the case with my recent trip to Sunriver, Oregon, a place where pretty much all there is to do is to bike, walk, swim, play tennis, and strike up a game of bocce ball. I’ll work out in a tiny hotel room, an empty field, someone’s driveway. It doesn’t matter what the conditions, I will still work out.
I get anxious when I stay with other people or go somewhere new because I wonder how I’m going to break it to my hosts that I need to work out. As in, it’s not even an option not to.
I can’t even remember the last time I took two rest days off in a row. As a personal trainer, I tell people to listen to their bodies and that if they need to take an additional day off in order to let their muscles heal, to do so. Yet I never take my own advice.
