I’m getting ready for my morning workout at the gym. I’m dressed in my sweatpants and t-shirt, I have my athletic socks on (sounds so jock, doesn’t it?) my feet and my hair’s up in an out-of-the-way ponytail. I’m gonns move! I’m gonna burn up the mats! Blow out the excercise machines! It’s gonna be sweat city!At this rate, I’ll be buffed in no time!
Well, yeah, but first I have to get there. My machine, my body, isn’t running real great this morning. Before I even pushed back the quilts and sat up, I was noting how I hurt here, and here, and here. Hands were all swelly. Couldn’t slip my ring over my knuckle. The bottoms of my feet felt like I’d been standing barefoot on gravel all night. I opened my eyes and gazed through the velvet dawn light at the ceiling. The cat snored softly, curled up in a ball between my neck and shoulder, warm as toast. How nice it would be, I thought, to just stay right here. Don’t move. Go back to sleep.
But it’s gym day. Yesterday afternoon I walked three miles. Could be why my feet are grumbling. And today I need to move the rest of me. Arms. Abs. Shoulders. Glutes. Deltoids. All those other muskles, each of which has a role in helping me stay mobile and, with luck, not hurt quite so much.
Phooey. I got up. Slowly. Did my thing. And here I am, sipping my first cup of coffee for the day and anticipating the coming workout without much enthusiasm.
But it came to me as I was brushing my teeth that if I don’t go, even though I’m a pile of owies this morning and that’s a good excuse for resting, I won’t like myself for caving. It will bother me all day, particularly after the morning stiffness works itself out. I could go later, sure, but I know myself too well. I won’t. So it’s go now or be a lump.
A sad, achy lump.
OK. I’m putting my shoes on. I’m grabbing my purse and car keys. I’m gimping out the door …