Last night, we dropped Nathan off at our gym’s daycare, headed to the pool and joined a water aerobics class at 7:50 PM. The only problem was, the class started at 7 PM. If there’s one thing that irks me to the bone marrow is being late and worse, being disruptive. But Mike doesn’t have these hangups and insisted we just go there even for the last ten minutes to see if we wanted to come back. I winced as we entered the pool full of women already in a groove. The lifeguard turned to us and smiled, explaining we were welcome to stay and kindly said that the class really started at 7.
I shot Mike a look like, see! I told you! Mike hollered, “I brought a note from home!”
Of course, all the women started laughing at this because whenever Mike is given an inch of comic timing, he takes a mile.
Even with this gaffaw-seeking moment, I am looking forward to working out with my husband again. Early in our relationship, when our schedules were in sync, we would spend an hour working out every day. During that time, we would just talk and I would tell him about what it was like to grow up on a tropical island like Saipan and what it was like to have a mother who walked out of the Denzel Washington movie, The Hurricane, because she literally thought it was a movie about the weather and not about a wrongly imprisoned boxer.
It was a sweet part of our early courtship, before we were married, before we were parents, before we even moved in with each other and learned that only one of us knew how to put Ikea furniture together (me) and only one of us knew how to tip correctly (mike). I would like to replicate that time of fitness, a period of my life when I lost so much weight that I didn’t need to use a pair of pliers to zip up my pants.
And while I’m talking all this health-mess, you know how all the news reporters were talking about how not to get fat during Thanksgiving and how many gazillion calories were in that tablespoon of giblet gravy, that sliver of apple pie, that turkey tail*? Why aren’t they still talking about it now that Thanksgiving has passed? What about all the people who didn’t heed network television’s advice and are sharing my chronic medical condition: junk in the trunk?
*One of my favorite Thanksgiving moments was when my niece Brandee, who was three or four at the time, ripped the tail end off the roasted turkey and said, “I’M EATING THE BUTT! I’M EATING THE BUTT!”