A Valid Excuse

Well, today is Wednesday (well, it is for at least another hour and a half, and then it will be Thursday. See, I know the days of the week. Aren't I smart?) and it's the first Wednesday that I've missed working out at the gym. Here's my legitimate excuse:

I was too stinkin' sore.

It's all Lynn's fault, because she has this incredible goal of being able to run a 5K. I can't walk a 5K, never mind running it! So, since my goals are set for me, and therefore understandably low, I am going to try to be able to run a mile by Christmas. If I don't make it, I'll just change my goal to cumulatively running a mile by Christmas. I can do that. I think.

So, last Monday, feeling all ambitious, cool, and totally inspired, I ran for as long as I could, stopping just short of collapsing on the treadmill in a pile of flabby legs and jiggly arms.

.2 miles. Notice the point. POINT TWO.

Grrrrr. So, I walked a bit more until I felt less like the bride of Frankenstein, and then I ran some more. Things continued in that way until I got to a mile. I felt tired, but not too bad, so then I followed my usual routine of lifting weights, etc., for another 45 minutes.

On Tuesday, I was feeling it. Oh wow, was I feeling it.

On Wednesday, I felt like dying. In fact, after prying my eyelids open (they were sore, too. Don't ask me how I managed to over-exercise my eyelid muscles . . .) I would have died if I wasn't suspicious that the kids would have written all over my dead body with lipstick, sidewalk chalk, and other strange writing utensils. Since my ego couldn't take the thought of dying from running .2 miles AND being in the casket with lipstick on my forehead, I got up.

Then I laid back down.

Then I got up again, and downed a couple of ibuprofen. I felt much more human then, but not superhuman, so I gave up all thoughts of going to the gym to work out.

I did take the kids swimming at the gym, though. Does that count?