I haven’t been to Tuesday/Thursday Spinning class since before the CapTexTri. The week after the race I was in “recovery” (and by recovery I mean “early stages of blobishness.”). Then I made a concerted effort to switch over from focusing on triathlon training to P90X weight training, so I was trying to commit more to P90X workouts than on triathlon workouts. Then it was recovery week for P90X. And then it was complete and total domination of my inner athlete by the Couch of Doom.
I am in fact dispatching now from a quagmire of couch cushions. I’m suffering a little anxiety knowing that, as of four minutes ago, there is no possible way for me to get to work on time without the help of Evie from Out of this World to freeze time. But I’m not quite nervous enough to actually get up and blow dry my hair. Since I was going to be late to work anyway, I probably definitely could have jogged, biked, yoga-ed, P90-ed, or SOMEthing. But I just couldn’t seem to make it happen.
Each afternoon I plot my early exit from work and my masterful squeezing of a workout in before dinner; yet each evening when I arrive home Sideshow Blob has already whipped up some fabulous meal complete with my favorite $6.00 wine decanted, ready, and waiting. Just try and put that on hold for 3-to-5 miserable sweaty slow miles. Just try. Each night I make a mighty effort to stop pouring the second glass of wine, but in my haste to make it back to the couch before Sideshow Blob finishes fast-forwarding commercials in a saved episode of Season 5 Dexter, I somehow forget how to do that. (Muscle memory.)
Can’t Make Me.
Here’s the worst part: I still wake up early. That’s right. I don’t even sleep in. I wake up early, make some coffee, and dip into my private reserve of back Bravo episodes. Housewives of every city, aftershows in clubhouses, reunion shows in aquariums, designers shopping furiously for online designer-curated sales. I can’t stop. I miraculously sleep through my alarm awaking three minutes after the start of spinning class EVERY MORNING. Somehow that’s too late for a workout, but just early enough for two cups of coffee and three segments of Million Dollar Decorators. (“I’m only watching to see if they ultimately go with floor lamps, table lamps, or sconces in the Malibu restaurant.”) And to anyone who’s got a problem with that, my inner overtaking blob can only say:
You’re not the boss of me.