I missed the big workout with the other Boot Campers last night because of a work board meeting I couldn’t escape.
I mean, I probably could have left earlier than I did, if I’d only stopped inciting more conversation so that the minutes would tick away. There’s that.
It was a chilly, dark night in the park where my buddies were squatting and lunging and making all sorts of grunting noises, though I’ve heard the muscle aches are creating bigger groans of pain today than last evening.
I’m scheduled to work out this evening with the same said individuals, also in the dark, around 7:30 this evening. I’ve packed warm leggings, scarf, mittens, hat, layers and layers of fleece, so that I may start warm and covered but finish sweating and cold beneath a steamy fog lifting from my skin.
Love exercising, I do.
But no, I don’t.
Days three and four have been the most challenging so far of this elongated attempt at bettering myself. The idea of eight weeks of , watching what you eat, exercising occasionally seems so doable on Day 1. Anticipation runs deep, especially when you’ve organized your efforts from the start gate with a hole punch and three-ring binder. All things are possible with proper office supplies.
Then reality sets in — flour powders the recipe pages within your binder, ink pens push a bit forcefully through the printed boxes on the To Do list when checking things off, vanilla extract flows into the back pocket of the binder leaving a delightful scent but oddly sticky puddle for future things to cling to; I’m spit balling on items that could happen to one doing all the exercising/logging/begging for two months to pass. These are possible setbacks.
I’m on Meal Four with a taco soup — did I mention it at some time previous, how delicious this particular stew was but ask me again on Leftover Day?
Yes, I may have foreshadowed my own displeasure with leftovers and I was not wrong.
Especially since this is Meal Four with an entree I plan to never ever create again. One, because of the mess — I’m not sure I’ve yet fully repositioned all the items in the kitchen that I used to concoct such a monstrous amount of Cuisine Today-ready food ( six large plastic containers of this stuff sat in my fridge after the debacle of “cooking”, six; that’s too many) — but I sallied forth and created other dishes for consumption, adding to the mountain of dirty spoons (I did not know I did not have enough spoons in my life) and measuring cups, more spoons, and Pyrex ware of undeterminable origin. Really, I need a housekeeper every Friday for the next…twenty weeks, to cover the ensuing 8 weeks but also for insurance that I don’t lapse into this world of cuisine preparation. Chefs are underpaid, but dishwashers are undervalued.
Fortunately our trainer has emailed us the next week’s delights: a new menu, a new set of exercise options, a new grouping of uplinks to inspirational quotes.
Which means I’m headed back to the grocery store to buy unheard of items in order to envelop them into delightful items within my kitchen to eat and clean up afterward.
I feel like I’m one step away from wearing dresses and pearl necklaces, what with all this new found domesticity. Sadly, though, I don’t think the Cleavers had dogs. They add a new level of danger to the homemaker mix.
