Death by Exercise

I tried all last week to get to the gym. The only problem is, if I want to go in the morning, I have to go super early before George leaves for work. My plan was to wake up at five o'clock, work out from five thirty until six thirty, and then be home, have my coffee, and make breakfast for Mase so it would be ready when he wakes up at seven.

For the record, waking up at five is impossible and should never be attempted by anyone at anytime.

Each morning last week, my alarm went off and all I could think about was how I still had at least an hour and a half before Mason woke up. An hour and a half of the second most precious thing in the world - sleep. So all last week, I made excuses as to why I couldn't go. I didn't hear the alarm. My throat hurt. I couldn't find the gym key. Huricanes. Alien abductions. And I just didn't go.

Until tonight. As George put Mason to bed, I dragged myself out the door to the gym. Let's just say that after almost two years without so much as thinking about doing a crunch, seven and a half minutes on the StairMaster just about killed me. I climbed, I crunched, I push-upped, and I lifted, and I'm completely positive that tomorrow I'm going to have muscles aching that I forgot existed.

I never seem to get over the feeling I get when I go somewhere alone though, even if it's just down the stairs to the mailbox. I guess maybe that's because I'm not alone that often. Once every three weeks or so I'll have lunch with a friend or a beer at Champs after work, but that's the extent of my 'me' time. Anywhere else I go, Mason's right there with me, and walking across the parking lot to the gym tonight made me feel like I was missing something, like an actual part of myself.

Still, it was so nice to have that hour to do something for myself - even if I was ten steps away from being found slumped over the StairMaster - that I'll go back to the gym again tomorrow. Probably.