I'm listening to Harry Potter audiobooks in Spanish. I don't speak Spanish. I can recognize a word or two from each sentence. I know what's going on because I know these books really well. I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish, but it's actually more fun than listening to the English version again.
My torso is very unhappy from the Crossfit workout yesterday. We did a little dance move called Maneaters. It involves dumb-bells and push-ups and squatting and jumping up. Dancing is not something I've ever excelled at, so remember this move is difficult. But it wasn't the maneaters that killed me. It was the running. I'm not a runner. Granted, I'm a lot better at it since I started these crazy lunch-time workouts, but I'm still very slow compared to everyone else. I'm quite used to being lapped by the younger, more-in-shape crowd. I may be slow, but I'm also tenacious. This time, I kept running (cue Forest Gump jokes). My asthma kicked it, but I didn't stop. I got a pain in my shin, and then in my side, but I ignored them and kept going.
What drove me? Pride? Shame? Nope. Boredom. My life, (as I've probably mentioned many times before this), is a very full, yet consistent cycle of work, childcare, and more work. This weird lunch-time ritual of random physical exertion with a flock of human-turkeys is more interesting than anything else I've been doing for the last year and a half. I am sweating like a farm animal and I find it curious. For a whole hour, I didn't think about my baby once. And that is bizarre to me. This is the one thing in my life that feels crazy (and maybe a little stupid), and is also good for me (suck it, baby weight).
I wish I could afford to do it twice a week instead of just once.
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