I got home from a long-ish day at work, took Lizzie on her regular walk around the block and then we both plopped ourselves down on the couch. I put my feet up on the coffee table, and still wearing my work clothes I spent the next 20 minutes not-quite-getting Jon Stewart's jokes about the Easter and Passover coverage.
I SO wanted to stay there for the next few hours, see what Colbert had to say, see if Stewie has attempted to kill Lois lately (I'm a few episodes behind) or laugh at whatever personas Roger whips out next. An ideal Tuesday evening, really. Laundry can wait. Dishes can wait. Someone bring me a pizza? Yep, a whole one.
But no, I have to get up, bleck!
I'd love to say that I had the drive and motivation to go to the Y. But today I didn't. I'm off my training plan again, sidelined for a couple more days due to recurring calf pain. No, the only thing getting me off my lazy butt this evening was the fact that somebody had to open her big mouth when they needed someone to fill the time slot for cycling.
Why, why, why did I do that?
I slug upstairs, groan slightly as I put on my tights and a wrinkly top, again curse the fact that I cut my hair just too short to fit in a ponytail, pull my baseball cap down low, toss a cookie to Miss Lizzie (lucky brat gets to stay on the couch AND eat a bacon flavored treat, so jealous) and head out the door.
