Bump, Bump, Bump, Hey-O, Hey-ooOh. The disco beat of my alarm goes off, and I don't have to open my eyes to know the time of "day." It's still dark outside, and my husband's elbow nudges me out of my fading reverie. I look up, yup, 5:15 am.
"It's okay for me to workout at night, right?"
"Yeah, if you actually do it."
"I'll do it tonight. It's better than watching TV on the couch."
I think about my conversation with a friend who's media fasting, and wonder if maybe this would be the way to break the grip of late night television and CW soap operas. Working out at night would be ideal. Especially if I get a job teaching. It wouldn't break my routine if I get a job that requires me to hit the road earlier than seven. It would be a lot easier to do night workouts with Y babysitting when Matt goes out of town. After I talk myself into the idea of sleeping in, my darling husband speaks up.
"You would probably feel better if you did it in the morning."
Shoot. He's right. I sit up. I swing my feet over so that my toes touch the ground. My head is pounding. My eyelids droop. I crash back into bed with defeat. I sleep in until 7:30 only to be awoken when Harrison comes bounding into our room saying that Libby decided to take off her dirty diaper in the crib.
Yikes. I should have gone to the gym.
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