Yesterday, I finally admitted to myself that it's time to get my sorry butt onto the treadmill. In the past five weeks, I have run once. But with my half marathon training schedule staring me down, I gave into the fear. And it's a good thing too because it is truly upsetting how far one's endurance can fall in a relatively short amount of time. I had to walk for a quarter mile after each of my three measly miles.
Even though it took me too long and I probably looked like a fat chicken trying to run on a treadmill, I felt good after my first post-holiday workout. As I stretched in the family room and basked in the glow of freshly released endorphins, my man walked into the workout room and quickly came back out.
"Whew! That room stinks!"
"Well YEAH. I just exercised in it."
"I didn't know you smelled bad when you work out!"
"What?! You've smelled me after a run before."
"Not like that. It smells like a lady gym."
Perhaps I should be offended, but I just feel proud to have made it 8 1/2 years with a husband who thought I never stink.