So, like everyone else on the planet, I’ve been hitting the gym pretty hard this January.  It’s been fun to get back into exercise, and I’ve been feeling good.  So good, in fact, that I hesitated to mention it here lest I drive my readership away in their throes of jealousy.  Because after all that exercise (it’s been three whole weeks you guys!) I can assume but one thing:  I look good.  Shoot, I’d even go so far as to say I look geeood.  That’s how hard I’ve been working.  And it’s this thought–how good I look–that sustains me in my efforts.

 When my phone wakes me at 5 am and pulls me, groggy and grumpy, out of Gerard Butler’s arms (where I can always be found at 5 am), only one thought is potent enough to get me out of bed:  I look good.

Eyes closed, I slide off the mattress and into the closet, where my lycra and spandex await me.  Pulling, pinching, and stuffing myself into the “activewear,” I tell myself (eyes still closed), “That you cannot draw breath in this sports bra, that these running tights are smashing last night’s pizza up your rib cage, that the rest of the family will now enjoy another two hours of sleep–it’s all worth it.”  Why? Because I look good.

Driving to the gym in the dark, I’ve no choice but to open at least one of my eyes.  (Not to brag, but I’ve kind of mastered the Cyclops Driving Method this month.  Hey, it’s early.)  I fumble with the stereo in hopes of a station to keep me awake for the two minute drive, but find only weather forecasts and yesterday’s political rants.  Early morning air time is apparently reserved for the trucking crowd because, unless it’s one’s profession, what idiot would be driving at this hour?  An angry man screams at me through the speaker about things over which I have no control–something I don’t need to get up at dawn for since I can get the same treatment from my own kids at any time during the day.  It’s too early to for this, I think, but it’s worth it.  Why?