Two weeks ago – when we were still relatively healthy – Husband and I drew up a fitness schedule. Actually, it was more a loose agreement to attend the gym three times a week: on Saturday, Monday and Wednesday.
We only made it to the gym once and the energy required to get Hsuband there was a workout in itself. It was as if the very mention of going exhausted him beyond measure:
“Husband. Husband! You still alive? Good. Ready to go to the gym?”
“Yes. You going to get changed?”
“I’ll just take a little nap first.” (Falling asleep on the sofa.)
Later: “Come on, stop procrastinating. Go and get ready.”
He disappeared upstairs and five minutes later, upon hearing no movement or sound from above, I went up to find Husband prostrate across the bed:
“What are you doing?”
“Thought I’d rest a moment.”
“Well, STOPPIT! Come ON!”
I prod him into – well, action is too strong a noun. Or it could be a verb; I’m never quite sure.
When we got to the gym, Husband spent ten minutes give or take – more give, to be honest – half-heartedly trying to touch his toes, which was undoubtedly comical although I am still unconvinced of its efficacy. Then he mounted the treadmill and strolled nowhere for ten minutes; then managed a five minute spurt of jogging.
I was so engrossed in my workout that I ripped the handle off the cross trainer. Husband’s treadmill was never in danger of unwitting vandalism.
Then Husband materialised beside me like a hungry Undead and stood around kicking the cross trainer.
“So, how much longer d’you think you’ll be?”
“About fifteen to – huff! – twenty minutes?”
“Fifteen minutes, you said?”
He sat on the cycling machine next to me and fiddled around with the settings and his phone and his HRM. When he finally located the pedals, he found they were good foot rests.
Then he was back at the cross trainer.
“You done yet?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, yes! Come on, let’s go.”
I tell you, I was in agony the day after.