I Promised Not to Post the Pic on the Internet. For Now.

I get it.  Really, I do.  The new year brings out all kinds of crazy NEWNESS!  Shiny sparkly newness! Organize.  Everything.  In.  Your.  Life.  NOW.

Something about the flip of the calendar makes people believe that they too can be an exerciser, a healthy eater, a svelte model, a domestic goddess, a rockstar at work, or all of the above.  The results, they need to happen now!  You know how I feel about resolutions, which is why all the sparkly newness in my world is in the form of goals that I am failing miserably at keeping. 

Uh yeah, this isn’t about me.

This is about Dave.

I maybe, just might have, taken a picture of Dave in the shower for something totally unrelated to fitness.  It wasn’t even about sex, I promise.  Am I the best wife ever, or what?  I thought I was being funny, but I inadvertently launched the “Oh dear GOD, I have to work out NOW,” sequence.  And once it’s started, there is no stopping it.

It was like watching that movie Speed.  You know it needs to be stopped, but you can’t figure out how to loop the video to trick the bad guy so you can hop off the damn bus.  I didn’t just ruin it for you… did I?  He got out of the shower and immediately started doing push ups and then {when I refused to do so} he made Finn sit on his feet so he could do sit ups.

Which was followed closely by a beet red face and a fan turned on high.  In the middle of winter.

It was about then that I texted my sister about what was happening at our house.

The next morning he woke up early and went running in tights, with shorts over the top of them.   In the rain.  He snuck out while I slept in because that would not happen on my watch.

After I stopped laughing, I told him to never go out of the house like that again.  I want to keep our neighbor friends and we’re not going to do that if he is out there running in tights and what looked like a skort.  All he needed was like 3 layers of scrunchie socks to complete the look.

Me:  I spent half the eighties dressed like that and I’m a girl, Dave.

Yesterday, he was up at five thirty in the freaking morning, which was approximately four hours after I went to bed.  You didn’t think I was lying when I said I was failing miserably at my goals, did you?

He came home and I surmised that his thighs hurt by deciphering clues in the form of an excruciating grunt every time he had to bend down, or get off the couch, or really pretty much any time he moved his legs.  There were also repeated requests for gluteus rubbing, but I am pretty sure that was his idea of foreplay and not really related to the exercise.  Maybe.

It was the lunges that did it.

Me: You aren’t one of those idiots that does lunges on the treadmill, walking like half a mile an hour in slow motion, are you?  Because those people are ridiculous.

Dave:  No!  I do them in front of the mirror with hand weights. 

Me:  Dork.

Dave:  I mean, I took a shower and I seemed fine.  Then I had to go down three flights of stairs.  I realized I might not be fine when my legs went to jelly and I caught myself before I fell down them.

Me:  Um, what?

Dave:  Yeah.

I’m pretty sure Dave’s resolution should have been to listen to his wife.  Hopefully though, this will be like all resolutions {goals are where it’s at people!} and things will go back to normal by February… if not the only results the Davester might be seeing are a pair of crutches, dirty looks from the neighbors and his picture wearing tights surfacing on the internet.