I dragged my butt into the gym at 8 am on Sunday, without my date - she was taking a much deserved morning off - willing myself towards the Stairmaster, my nemesis.
I don't love the Stairmaster but I'm pretty sure it will love me back in time - it has potential - so I've committed to climbing floors a couple of times a week. (Blech. That's the face I make when I type these words. Blech.)
Without my witty friend to keep my mind off the clock, I had considered calling the whole thing off. My attention span is that of a gnat and without some accountability, I am liable to copout.
It didn't help that my TV options included: golf (yawn), Country Western videos (something about shutting down Detroit; happy stuff) or Naomi Watts in King Kong (the big bug part).
My fervor wavered. My safety became questionable as I slowed down a bit. Just how far could a Stairmaster fling, if a Stairmaster would fling me?
Then I looked around. I saw young woman racing on treadmills, older gentlemen sporting recent chest scars on stationary bikes. It was Sunday morning and we were all in this together.
I kept moving. I kept sweating. Maybe I've got it in me after all.