Last week was our one-year anniversary.  

 

Did you send a card or a gift?  No, you didn’t.  You bastard!

I’ve worked hard for you this past year.  I exercise, stay in shape, and a have a fresh article ready and waiting for you every week. And what do I get in return?  “I ate too much this week.”  “Does drinking beer count as exercise?” “I don’t exercise but I waited 30 minutes to go OT.”

Sure, you sometimes tell me about your spin class, long hike, or the giant stone you lifted.  But did you think, even once, to invite me along? No, you didn’t. You bastard!

You brag about your weight loss and then tell me how much you ate.  You tell me how you limited your eating to a tiny window of time, how you must eat this or avoid that, supplements don’t work but you take this or that because why not. Did you think to take me out to eat for our anniversary? No, you didn’t. You bastard!

Your weather is too hot, too cold, too dry, too humid to exercise. You can’t sleep, don’t need much sleep, wish you could get more sleep, need to improve your sleep habits. Stop confusing me.

I’m going to have to rethink our relationship.  Now excuse me while I get ready for the gym.  This ass isn’t going to take care of itself.

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Unfortunately, my premonition last week came true.  My county slipped back into the purple zone. My gym is closed but another location in the same chain has moved a bunch of equipment outside so I’ll be going there. Morning temps for this weeks workouts are forecast to be in the low to mid 50s. I can’t imagine they will have a water fountain outside. This is going to be interesting. I’ll just keep imagining Jocko Wilink telling me to “get some.”

I remain befuddled by the panic. My county’s population is 2.4 million people. 161 people are hospitalized with Covid. Because our infection rate is over 5% gyms, restaurants, and houses of worship can’t have people inside them per my governor’s edict.  It’s rusty chainsaw time.

This week’s music choice. I can’t quit the lot of you.