Sean had an 8am meeting this morning, which meant we had to leave the house at 6:50am. I'm probably going to get laughed out of town by everyone with kids—"6:50am? You think 6:50am is early? 6:50am is a WEEK IN MAUI WITH GEORGE CLOONEY"—but considering it's an hour later than we normally leave, I thought 6:50am was fairly barbaric. I thought it was so barbaric, in fact, that I didn't wake up until 6:40am, when I grabbed a random assortment of clothes—half workout clothes and half normal ones—and put some of them on my body while stuffing the others into a bag. Then I took a pillow from the couch, trudged to the car, and half-napped all the way down the peninsula until we got to my office.
Have you ever got to the office at 7:30am? My god, but it's the second best way in the world to feel smug. (Well, it would be if you didn't walk in wearing a workout top with a pair of jeans and an eyemask you forgot was still pushed up on your forehead. Oh hey, don't mind me, I always dress this way. Anyway, whatever, LOOK HOW EARLY I AM.)
The first best way in the world to feel smug is by exercising in the morning. You all probably discovered this years ago, but I have always been an after-work exerciser, which I find is a much more effective way to dread it all day and then come up with a litany of excuses to put it off until later ("But she needs me to go to happy hour with her! It would be cruel to say no!")
This morning, however, I worked out for an hour, showered and changed at the gym—in a stall, obviously—and then began my normal work day.
And I have to say, I felt FANTASTIC.
Tired, but fantastic. A little sore, but fantastic. Slightly sheepish not to have done this sooner, but fantastic. At one point in the day, I even got a little crazy and started thinking I'd work out after work as well, like one of those ridiculous stars in Us Weekly who spends six hours in the gym to sculpt a bottom like two tennis balls in a tube sock*, but I came to my senses shortly afterwards and decided my need to get home and fill the extra hour I'd created with couch-sitting and cat-cuddling ultimately trumped my vague desire to one day possess the posterior of Pippa Middleton. (Ooh, do I spy a band name in there? They'd be huge!) (The band, I mean, not the posterior of.....never mind.)
* I don't think this is actually a saying, but I hope I'm getting my point across sufficiently. If I'm not, I'd be happy to draw you an illustration. The one thing you don't want to do, however, and I hope you'll trust me on this, is google "butt like tennis balls" in an attempt to clarify what you're trying to say. I just don't think you want to go there, okay? I've been there for both of us, and it wasn't pretty.