Another day, another opportunity for you to achieve those micro-goals you set for yourself to keep you on the path to bigger things . . . better health, better relationships, better life. It does not begin with these lofty ambitions in mind but the infuriating ring of your cell phone alarm. The one you keep meaning to change but never quite invest the time to go through the settings to select the one with the sound of waves breaking on the sandy shore. Snooze . . . the first death-rattle thought to those high-minded goals, but wait . . .  you curse that imposter of a former-self from last night. The one stuffed the phone down the back of the sofa but a few hours earlier, after he listened to that motivational NPR podcast. Louder the alarm sounds emanating from the furthest point to your soft sunken mattress, where during slumber you cocooned yourself in your favorite winter down blanket. You have little choice but to play that god forsaken mantra of the self-helpers on loop in your head.

“Don’t think, just do . . . don’t think, just do”

And on it goes, as you unfurl the blanket, wince at the cold-air and stomp flat footed across the icy hardwood floor. Muted phone in hand, newly adorned with minute lacerations from the household jetsam nestled within the cracks of the sofa, calm descends one more. You close your eyes, feeling heavy, ready to be nudged back into slumber. Turning 180 degrees you head back from whence you came, all too ready to be succumb to your immediate bodily desires. One step, two steps . . . then thud, a pain travels from your shin to your brain shocking you out of that tranquil state. Looking down at the strategically placed chair, guilt and dread at once manifest themselves as you see neatly laid out your favorite running attire. Singlet, shorts and those one-hundred buck pair of shoes which old you were so eager for new you to try this morning. Contemplating walking past this self-laid trap, you see a vision of the future in which a very familiar character is staring back at you all judgmental and self-righteous. A deep grown curdles from within as you glacially reach for the singlet. Everything is put on back-to-front, inside-out, left-to-right. Dozens of corrections later you stand there an illuminous yellow cretin, shoulders slumped forward, arms dangling, butt sitting in an imaginary saddle. Stretches . . . oh fuck, stretches . . . better still fuck the stretches. Then you think, one last chance of reprieve, a strain, a twinge anything to provide legitimacy to calling it off for another day. You go through the routine of lunges, high-knees and squats searching your body for signs of submission. All you feel is the chafing of your shorts reminding you to apply the body-glide, lest you come back with a delicate gait which you will have to make up excuses for to appease your co-workers enquiries. A few minutes later, house keys in hand, you are ready. Closing the door, you say to yourself . . . “that was relatively easy today” then you remember, you are scheduled for ten miles! Cursing that sadistic fellow from last night once more, you put one foot in front of the other and set off down the street, in search of that delayed gratification NPR promised you as your rich reward for a better life.