Sally in the Zen

Confessions of a Befuddled Zen Buddhist

An Ounce of Pain

Last Friday while at my daytime gym, I made my gym instructor quite unhappy with me.  And as a result, she took it out on the entire class.  I apologized profusely but to no avail. 

Just because I was going to eat a fried chicken sandwich with french fries after her class.

I ask you, is that really so wrong?

Fast forward to this week.  I took her Spin Class and she was particularly tough on me.  I might have been hallucinating, but it seemed that she was singling me out.  Every time she passed my exercise bike, she would check the amount of sweat that was dripping off my face. 

Okay, so I wasn’t dripping sweat, but I was indeed glistening. 

And then it hit me.  That damn tasty fried chicken sandwich.  Those damn tasty french fries.  With ketchup.

I asked her if that was the reason for her being particularly harsh with me, and she answered my question with a question.  I hate when people do that.

“How did it feel eating that after my class?”

“Just great.”  I couldn’t lie.  “It went down just fine.”

It’s not like I eat badly every day.  Usually just Fridays, because that’s my treat to myself for having been good during the rest of the week.  It’s just one day. 


“Exercise doesn’t give you the right to eat badly, you know.”  She reminded me.

And then she moved the class off the exercise machines and destroyed us with her killer abs exercises.

I didn’t take any of this personally, though.  I still adore her and her killer ways.  I believe that this ounce of pain, this exquisite torture, is the only type of pain that is good for me.

I think.

Let me ponder that over a fully loaded chicken cheesesteak.

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