A few years ago, when I was in high school :), I tried out for the pompon squad. My sister … Continue reading Affected by the threat of loss…
When I went to the refrigerator for my morning short cup of prune juice, I found none. Bummer. Significant bummer. So after work, after my yoga class, dressed in workout clothes, high-heeled sandals (because an alternate pair of shoes had been unnecessary for yoga), and my sunglasses, I entered the grocery store. Picked up two of the largest size prune juice bottles I could find and made my way to express checkout.
I found I was as embarrassed as I would have been purchasing a package of feminine products — when that was the only thing I was purchasing.
I still would be embarrassed to buy only a package of pads or tampons — which practically screams “I need this now!” — but at that moment I realized purchasing prune juice is equally loud. So I tried to create a story as to why I was purchasing so much. Such as:
“It’s the secret ingredient in my roasted tomato bisque. Some people use plum tomatoes; I use prune juice and tomatoes.”
As it turns out, neither the cashier nor the bagger asked the question, but a friend of my son’s, who is in management at the store, rushed over, bearing a huge grin, and, startled, eyed my purchase.
“What…” he started, but I cut him off.
“We’ve decided to drink prune juice instead of wine,” I told him spontaneously, tomato soup recipe story forgotten. “And we drink a lot.”
We laughed, I exited the store, drove home, entered my house, shot a photo of the prune juice — and then thought a photo of myself in my incongruous attire holding the two bottles would have been more effective. I thought it would make a funny status for Facebook, and then neither took the alternate photo nor posted to Facebook.
This past week — on my vacation, mind you — I enjoyed running on the beach. In a hate-love sort of way. I may have mentioned I hate running? But I do love it after I’m done — and that loving feeling seems to last long enough for me to start a run again the next day. And then the hate begins anew. But it was vacation, and my other fitness options (i.e. my health club group exercise classes) weren’t available. However, my personal trainer (i.e. my husband) was. Running with him appeared a viable option.
I would describe my relationship with my husband as more of a loved-love-love-hate-love relationship. I loved him enough to marry him. I love him enough to stay married to him. I love the idea of having a physical therapist/personal trainer for my husband. I just hate having to do what he says (i.e. run, Sara, run). I love him again after the exercise is a thing of the past.
(Did I mention I actually lost weight over this vacation?)
But let me focus on the hate-love relationship with running/ my husband. It is hard to separate the two.
Do you know how parents will urge a child just learning to swim to “swim to me,” as they designate a minuscule distance in the pool? And then when the child commits to that distance, the parent keeps backing farther and farther away?
That is my husband’s method for personal training.