For the record, I hate the word motivation 5 out of the 7 days of the week.  

"What keeps you motivated?"
"I'm inspired to be an athlete but I don't have motivation like you do."

Fuck motivation; be consistent.  And when you cannot be consistent, reflect.  In the running community and beyond, people toss around motivation like its something you can buy at the corner store from Papi.  Go ahead-- pick up that can of fleeting motivation next to the Skittles and Starbursts but tell me how that scam works.  If I could buy it on the shelf tomorrow, I'd return that can of shit back and ask for a refund.  Just like anything you want in life, you have to earn it and the road to success is not a straight line.
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As a plus size athlete, fatphobic comments run steadily like water.  And being a black woman, I have enough traumatic stories to keep you drunk for an entire month.  Bring the Johnny Walker and we could have a marvelous party in self pity -- but I prefer to not indulge.  Instead, I love running or doing gym bro shit.  Scaring the shit out of my 62 year old mom as I tell her about traveling to another trail in an affluent community that will try to search my locs as if I'm holding onto a special strain of marijuana is more of my thing.  I know how harshly the world views me and others who share some sort of attribute that comes with living in this body -- and the media knows it too.  Since they're so knowledgeable about it, these so called 'professional' publications and corporate companies found gimmicky ways of generating buzz.  This weeks' anal chafing came from an opinion piece written by Tanya Gold posted in The Telegraph -- and I'd be dipped in hushpuppy battered shit if I'm posting a link on here.  

The internet is a gift and curse to many.  Through social media, I literally went from being a novice athlete who worked out for fun to being sponsored and partnered up with some dynamic companies.  And while I don't regret posting up my regimen, sharing highlights of my day through ASMR style cooking videos and occasional rants here and there, know that it's not as glamorous as it appears.  In fact, I recently jumped up close to a thousand followers in the last 36 hours at the expense of being a target of heckling on social media.  Oftentimes I am conflicted on calling people out, turning the other cheek or being vulnerable about the degrees of hurtful exchanges produced by strangers who hate me for breathing.  

Fortunately for all of Brooklyn, I found my way to the gym and after I type this post, I'll be running through some rain for a few miles because it's another day of the week --not because it's fucking Monday.  If I allowed the fitness gods to peek into my already over-sharable life beyond what I show on social media, I might be offered as some cult sacrifice to the Reading Rainbow coalition.  I've heard everything from not allowing your knees to cross your toes - yep, that's officially bullshit and you can Google check that - to not being considered a runner if you fall under a certain pace.  Frankly, all of these rules can sit and rotate.  This never missing a Monday logic makes me want to drink a Shake it Baby tea because of course, we know how well senna and laxatives work on the body.
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Before I pick up another cup of Southern Comfort and cream soda, I thought it was best to rock out this post.  Here's a half-assed disclaimer:  I might say some things that's gonna sound a bit hypocritical but you might look at yourself twice because you may have said it too.  Now that this is out there, let's talk about my distaste for pretentious ass New Year's resolutions and my year in reflection.