It doesn’t matter how much I love doing any particular thing – actually getting started is the most difficult part.
Once I’m at work, I get straight into it, and the day zooms by. I’m writing, editing, coordinating. I’m doing the things I like best and am good at, in between cursing my computer and the internet cutting out (our network goes down far more often than it should for what is a decent-sized company, in my plebeian opinion). But hauling my ass definitively out of bed? That’s the toughest bit.
I love eating. I think it’s safe to say that it’s hands down my favourite pastime. I spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about food. I even kind of enjoy the process of baking (and to a lesser degree, cooking – which is odd as you’d think I’d enjoy the more freestyle nature of it. But there’s nothing like mixing up batter or kneading dough – to say nothing of the miracle that sees flour and sugar and water swell into something beautiful and edible). But clearing the counter, pulling out the mixing bowl and lining up ingredients? That’s the biggest hurdle.
Once I’m in my groove, making pace around my neighbourhood, I feel freaking great. Working up a sweat is strangely satisfying. Endorphins and whatnot. But putting on running clothes, lacing on my shoes and stretching? That’s the part I put off.
Likewise, every time I get in a decent session with my six-stringer, I wonder why I don’t do it more often. But plugging in my guitar and amp? That’s the chore.