I haven’t been to the gym yet.
Seriously, that’s wrong on several levels.
I’m spending money I barely have on a service I don’t use.
I need to exercise
- ask the nasty little guilt monster strapped to my wrist that keeps saying how disappointed it is and how so very bored not counting the steps I’m not taking.
- ask my doctor - wait, no, don’t - I’m not currently talking to her (literally).
My favourite rationalization for not exercising is that I don’t have the spare time
- given vacation is nothing but spare time, I have to face that fact that I’m just freaking lazy.
Even the Skitter-Twins are mocking me with their random interval Crazy Cat Scrambles in which they tear through my house as though it were (what it actually is for them) an obstacle course and they are going for the world record in the over the refrigerator/under the wall/around the house using the ceiling fan and crown molding slalom.
Yesterday I did little on my list.
I did go to a week-day morning movie. Absolute crap, it was, but I went to the theater with the lazy-boy reclining seats and totally vegged.
Yes, yes. I’ll overpay for the privilege of the faux leather reclining as you movie watch experience, but I insist on sneaking in my own drinks and snacks.
$6 for a small soda - my posterior parts! Plus, there is absolutely nothing sold at a movie-house that a diabetic can guiltlessly nibble on. So I sneak in a bottle of home-reconstituted sugar-free lemonade and a big bag of cherries.
I watch the ridiculously beautiful people with gym-sculpted bodies leaping and fighting and flying across the screen in mesmerizing CGI-assisted acrobatics (stuff the Skitter Twins actually do without CGI-assistance because - well, damn - they’re cats - “We don’t need no stinking CGI because we don’t live in your reality! Silly earthbound human.”)
Oh they are so exhaustingly fascinating, defying logic and gravity and a few other laws of physics I cannot be bothered to think to name.
(Centrifugal? Centripetal? Oh who the hell cares! It’s the movies. Park your brain at the door, for heaven’s sake.)
My feet up, head lolled back, I swig on lemonade and spit cherry pitts into the baggie that I’ll smuggle out in my purse next to the baggie that I smuggled the whole cherries in.
Oh the decadence!
By the time I got home I was completely enervated,
I did take a day-devouring after-matinee to evening nap.
Nothing like catching up on an industrial strength sleep deficit.
And I must have really really needed it,
must have just been worn down to a running on instinct level.
How else do I explain that I don’t remember putting the baggie half full of cherries in the fridge (as I should have) without actually taking the baggie out of my purse?
I may need more than two weeks of vacation.
Loading comments...