I got up at ten till six this morning to walk with a neighbor. This was only the second time I’ve walked since having surgery. (Before my meeting with the knife — gross, huh? — I was walking a little under three miles every weekday.)
So I am back to sleeping every night from the time the kids go to bed till about eleven, when Bret peels me off the couch. I am back to relying on coffee to get me through the morning and an occasional power nap to get me through the afternoon. All with the hope of losing the double chin that keeps up with my growing age.
This morning my body moved in response to the alarm, but my mind didn’t want to. I forced myself to remember my chin and the candy bar I ate last night. Time to go to chocolate confession.
For a moment, as I watched for my partner’s legs to peer out from beneath the giant blue fir dividing the road, I prayed that her alarm hadn’t gone off. Maybe she forgot? My bed screamed, “Come back!”
Seconds later, I fell in quick step with my friend. As we walked, I thought about how refreshing it was to feel better yesterday and find inspiration in someone else’s words. I thought about the revival of this blog. I thought, “Things are pretty good.”
And, as if on cue, the sky released delicious drops of rain. Ronda and I looked at each other: “Should we go back?”
Nope. No going back.