If I ate queso as often as I tweeted about it, I would be dead.
They’d serve it at my funeral with a fountain in one final nod to the melted cheese dream that put me in the grave, but it would be game over for me.
In order to eat queso, I have to work out.
Is that the weirdest reason ever to exercise? Surely no one in the history of mankind has told a trainer, “My motivation for hitting the gym is cheese, glorious cheese.”
Traveling makes exercise difficult so I have to plan ahead. I have to pack my workout clothes. I have to pack my sneakers. I have to pre-select a time in my schedule when I can fit in some time on the hotel fitness center.
Calling two old treadmills and seven barbells in a closet does not a “fitness center” make, but hotels are creative with their words.
Three weeks ago I planned to run three miles in Houston, Texas. I got everything ready before hand and was laser focused on running three miles. A little voice inside my heads said, “Why don’t you run 4?” But like most times in my life I was quickly able to shut the positive voice up. (The negative voice in my head? I tend to hold open mic nights for that guy and listen and listen and listen.)