My 2 hours of exercise on Mondays are great. My skinny and white little arms may or may not be looking more toned than ever before . . . I think.

“Aren’t I looking super buff, honey?” I asked my husband just last week. “No, seriously,” I continued, “can’t you tell a big difference from before?”

He squinted his eyes. He looked at my arms thoughtfully. He walked around me to study a different angle. He opened his mouth to pronounce his verdict–

“You know what,” I added quickly, “don’t answer that question.”

I had to stop him before he said anything rash.

Regardless of how visible my musculature is or is not, I can’t count how many grunts have gone into the strengthening of each muscle fiber. It helps to make noise, it really does. My teacher laughs at me on a regular basis–or is it ‘laughs with me’?

See, I’m not sure if you can call the ‘evil cackle’ variety a participatory experience.

When I get done, I am beat. Beat, beat, beat. The harsh transition from sitting in an office from 9-5 to hustling for a woman who was a drill seargeant in another life always feels rather abrupt. My bottom gets very confused when making the switch from its life in a plush leather chair where it abides for 8 hours daily to a series of lunges that put the true meaning of ‘pain’ into its existence. It asks me many a time: “Is my true essence a comfy chair-shaped slump, or do you want me to actually work for my bread?” “Work for it!” I yell, “get smaller! Get firmer! I never want to hear you utter the word ‘slump’ again!”

That bottom needs to be talked to with authority–I find that backsides in general require a firm hand.

But I can get through the squats, and the lunges, and the sweating, because I know this is waiting for me when I get home at 7:45:

A husband. A husband who has dinner ready for me. Incidentally, that is the last of the second pot roast, defrosted and refried with some onions and bacon. I warned you we’d be eating that pot roast for eternity and an age. You may have thought I was exaggerating–if so, you thought wrong.

During my workout tonight I will derive extra strength from the fact that as soon as I walk in the door, I have a husband waiting who will make sure I have a bottle of water nearby to rehydrate as I collapse into my chair and say “I am sooooo tired!”

A husband who understands my need for a lot of rice, and piles it into a bowl for me with generous abandon.

A husband who . . .

“Hey! Put that camera down, and get over here! It’s time to eat! Hop to it!”

. . . who has a magnificent forearm. OK, that was the worst picture I have ever posted on this blog–but that forearm makes it worth every sorry pixel.

Happy Monday everyone!