I was in a terrible mood when I got home last night and the last thing I wanted to do was my remaining 24 burpees. If it had been any other (non-challenge related) exercise, I would have beelined to my bed, pissy mood in tow, and not bothered. Instead, some small, rational part of me understood that waking up with 24 extra burpees of debt would have me in a worse mood the next day. So I burpeed. And I went to bed significantly less grouchy, knowing I'd accomplished something, however small, in the course of the day.
That being said: I'm sick of burpees. I'm sick of doing them with a cautious landing in the morning so I don't wake up the neighbors (even though these neighbors host my nemesis, the evil, loud, and mostly talentless band down the hall, until midnight on weekdays--another issue altogether). I'm sick of doing them in my socks at work so museum-goers below my office don't mistake the thump.. thump.. of burpees for the ghost of my institution's namesake. And I'm sick of the 2 lb. weight-toting girls with their hair down at the gym gawking at me while I turn red, sweat all over everything, and, in my final sets, make noises similar to those of a cow dying in labor.
Maybe that's all talk as a result of the 'tude creeping back in, but knowing that the challenge is over in one week and that future burpees (no, i can't cut them out entirely; yes, i may have an addiction) will be done out of my own desire is a relief.
One week! We can do one more week.