“You’re losing your belly,” Hubby says to me one day last week, perhaps on Thursday.
“No, I’m not.
“Yes, you are. It’s definitely smaller.”
“Nope, it’s the same as it’s ever been,” I reply. I know for a fact I still possess my flabby belly. I did lose it over the summer, after swimming eighty laps every day. But, after almost three months off inactivity, it’s crept back, along with extra, unwanted padding elsewhere.
Then, he asks, “Did you start exercising?”
I cringe. Exercising – that drafted word. Something I’ve been telling him – and promising me – that I was definitely going to start – on Monday. Monday – another drafted word, because Mondays come and go, along with my plan to be in the gym. And the gym’s in our basement, so it’s not like I have to pay a ton of money or drive in inclement weather.
Of course, I can’t begin exercising on a Tuesday or Wednesday; I have to wait for the first day of the week. That elusive Monday that never arrives. And on and on…
Back to Hubby’s question and my answer: “Yes, I did. Started Monday.”
“See, he says. “I told you your belly was getting smaller. I can tell. Exercising works.”
Oh, Hubby’s so easily led, so easily deceived.
Back to Monday: It’s here – today! And guess what? I was downstairs in the gym at 7:22 a.m.
Yay, me! Take that, Hubby!