One quick glance at my calendar yesterday morning was all it took for my blood pressure to start working its magic on my already-throbbing temples. I had a major deadline at the office and my evening didn’t hold much promise for a reprieve. My youngest son’s Cub Scout Den meeting was scheduled during the same time slot that my middle son’s marital arts class was taking place. And, of course, both venues are on the opposite side of town.
Think, think, think. My husband would be at work by then and my other licensed son was down with a nasty head cold.
Oh well. It wouldn’t be the first time I had to perform my famous “Being Two Places at Once” routine.
I contemplated throwing myself a pity party. Only five days into the New Year and, between my 10k dreams and my pledge to serve a daily family sit down dinner, I’m ready to throw in the towel and cry “Uncle!” In fact, I’m thinking of having a t-shirt made with the word emblazoned across my sport-bra encased chest.
If it weren’t for my spouse working the night shift this week, the day would’ve been a bust.
When my workday started inching beyond the 8-hour mark, I took a mental inventory of what I recalled seeing in my pantry, fridge and freezer the last time I checked. Frozen turkey meatballs, whole wheat spaghetti, salad makings and a gallon of milk came to mind. Quick and nutritious.
But I still had to get my work out in. To miss yet another day would be bad. I was at risk for undoing all of the conditioning I had worked so hard to attain before the holidays hit and I shamelessly began inhaling egg nog, Christmas cookies, my sister’s out-of-this-world stuffing, and her to-die-for Chocolate Whisky cake.
My mind was made up. The exercise routine must go on!
When my workday finally ended, I had just two hours to play with until I would defy science and deliver two different sons to two different locations at the same time.
Should I use the two hours to workout or to make and serve a proper family dinner?
Just as I was about to offer a sacrifice of the day’s family dinner to the goddess of failed New Year’s resolutions, my husband, dressed and ready for work, came into the kitchen.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked as he stuck his head in the pantry and pulled out a jar of spaghetti sauce.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“If you’re gonna work out, you’d better get going.”
How I love that man. And did I mention he’s no slouch in the kitchen?
So, off I went to shuffle and sweat. By the time I got home, the table was set, the meal was ready to serve and the kids had clearly been briefed on manners, tact and diplomacy before I arrived and plopped myself, sweaty and smelly, in my place at the table. They didn’t even flinch.
One shower and several close calls with law enforcement officials on the lookout for speed limit violators later and I was back at home, crumpling up invitations to my pity party.