She works out at a gym
Saturday mornings. She works out every day of the week. Saturday mornings, just because she is working out and the guilt of not working out is too much to
bear, I drag myself out of bed and punt myself down the stairs and into the
car. I do not like going to the gym - hence the hashtag #cursetheworkout -
which I always tag onto my workout-related tweets.
I worked out last Saturday
morning because, as usual, my wife was already out there with her trainer doing
a private workout. Her dedication to fitness really does inspire me to workout.
In fact, she continues to inspire a lot of people to workout. It’s pretty cool.
Last Sunday morning, she wanted to go to the gym so, muttering under my breath,
I went back.
 |
| Photo by @northsideways |
Put me down for two days in a
row – yay.
If I happen to be on the
treadmill at the gym and she gets on the treadmill beside me, it can be downright
humiliating and scary, not necessarily in that order. While I’m casually
jogging on my treadmill, she is blistering along at incredible speeds, her
legs blurring as the gym staff eye their roaring and overworked machine, fire
extinguishers in hand.
Half-joking, I have asked her
not to run on the treadmill beside me. Last Sunday, I was on the treadmill. She
approached the treadmill beside me and before stepping onto it, she looked at
me and sweetly inquired, “Would it be ok if I use this treadmill as long as I
don’t run fast?” Relieved, I indicated that would not be a problem.
A few moments later, as I
shifted my attention away from my lazy jog, I looked over at her, to discover she
was hopping sideways while running and then adding lunges to her run. Feeling
that familiar inadequacy, I suddenly found myself wishing she was sprinting
beside me instead. Better to be shown up by straightforward running as opposed to a flurry of fancy footwork!
There’s no competition, she
insists. She’s just a beast being beastly.
I can't argue with that.
