Losing weight is hard enough, but to have a saboteur waiting in the wings is rather galling. Especially when it’s my husband who has promised his support in my quest to be a little slimmer.
Mmmmm….it didn’t last long.
Inspired by my Facebook friend who will soon be half the woman she was by the time I next meet her for lunch, I forced myself to change into my new (bigger) running shorts and trainers and headed for the treadmill in the garage armed with bottle of water and sweat towel. (It made me feel good even if I knew that I wouldn’t be able to do much first time out.)
I struggled to remember where the “on” switch is but managed to sort myself out with a suitable speed (not very fast) and incline (not very steep) and a quiz programme to watch on the TV so I could get going.
I had only walked for 2 minutes when I realised that hubby, bless him, had come into the garage and lit up a cigarette! I don’t like smoke at the best of times, but after psyching myself up to start exercising, I didn’t need to be running through a fog of nicotine and my clothes to smell of smoke. So, I stopped. And I swore. And I shouted. And I stormed off in a sulk.
I’m still sulking but sanguine. Hubby’s still hiding in the Doghouse (local pub).
Tomorrow’s another day.