Old habits die hard. No, this post is not about the french fries I had with dinner. And it's not about the ice cream with chocolate syrup I had after dinner. And it's also not about the false promises to my dog of going for a walk when the weather cooled off this evening. This post is about my old friend scale. I use that word "friend" loosely. So why the heck did I pull it out of the bathroom closet? In my last post I had no clue if my rut was showing on my weight. So shortly after that last post, curiosity got the best of me. I weighed myself. And it was good. I was the same as I have been for about 2 months. And since that weigh-in about 7 days ago, I have since been on that scale no less than 12 times. Because we are close friends. And because I am crazy.
Also over the past week, I have made good on my word to increase the speed on the treadmill. I used to start at 5.5 and work my way up to 6.0. Over the last week, I have been starting at 5.8 and working my way up to 6.2. I wish my workout music had a beat to match it. My music is stuck at the 3.8 walk for which I downloaded it. It's also a good beat for a level 10 killer workout on the elliptical. I am getting a bit bored with my three eighties play-lists. I'm up for suggestions.
Speaking of eighties...this Saturday I will attend my 20th high school reunion. I have no clue what to expect from that but I am pretty sure that our generation is not aging as fast as others. I have recently socialized with a couple friends from high school and I am convinced that we are as goofy and immature together as when we were seventeen. I watched this vice presidential candidate on the TV tonight and learned he is four years older than me. That worries me. Because there ain't no way someone my age can run this country. I scream like a little girl when I see a mouse, I'm too freaked out to kill a spider with MY shoe, I giggle like a school girl when my hubby chases me around the house, I still like reading fairy tales, I hate to floss and rarely eat cooked veggies. Yet, I am officially old enough to run the country and have a 20th high school reunion.
I don't feel my age at all. I wonder how my kids see me. I always saw my parents as mature guardian know-it-alls who had a plan for us and who had it all under control. Do my kids know that we are taking this day by day. Well, maybe month by month. Would they be horrified to know we don't have a college fund started yet or that the only reasons I eat salads at dinner is because cooked peas still make me gag? I'm pretty sure my son would be horrified to hear me scream like a school girl while his dad chases me around the house. My four year old would revel in it. My eight year old would nearly die of embarrassment because he's getting close to out-maturing me. This is the same kid who when asked what would he buy with a million dollars replied that he would pay off our mortgage and then buy some Legos. What would I buy? Well, okay, I too would pay off the mortgage. But I would like to think I'd treat the family to Disney World after that! Legos are for future engineers. And vice presidents.
My hope is that my 20th high school reunion will prove to me that I am not alone in my very slow rate of maturation. Maybe I'll see some tapered and rolled up jeans with colorful socks. I had better not get involved in any IRA talk. Because I don't think I have one of those. Keg stands anyone? Anyone want to bet I can make water come out of Erin's nose?
All that aside, I'm ready for another week of faking it. I'll attend some meetings, supervise a few people, make a few lunches, fill up the car with gas a couple times, workout after work en lieu of watching cartoons and I'll even try to bring in the mail when I get home from work. And hopefully my son will relax thinking "She's got this."
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