Lately

I woke to an intriguing statement from my husband. I had woken early, in those long moments before the alarm is due to ring. The morning was tranquil and still and when the phone rang, it seemed as if I had known it would.

“I sent you a picture of something,” he said, pleased with himself. “It’s something for you to wear.”

Something to wear? I thought of jewelry, perhaps something silky and abbreviated. He had never before ventured into the uncertain waters of buying me clothing, always a risky business. Except for the Pajamagram for Valentine’s day, and we had ended up picking that out together.

I was not even close, he had picked out boots. Not cowboy boots or supple suede, knee length fashion statements. They were mid calf, mid Western farmer’s boots for women. Made with flat soles and plain, functional leather, they were a perfect match to his own, only much smaller.

After the initial puzzlement, I was flooded with sheer love for my darling farmer’s boy. It was not a romantic gift or even one that I would probably wear, but I could follow his train of thought so clearly written in the gesture; that he had thought of me, wanted to outfit me not only for the rigors of yard work and ATV riding, but to match himself.

“What happened to the one e-mail and blog a day?” he wanted to know.

“We never agreed to that! It was one e-mail a day…” my voice trailed off. “Are you bored?” I asked, light dawning.

His laughter was confirmation enough. Poor guy; there will be yet several more weeks of that sort of boredom.

I, on the other hand, have been exceptionally busy. I have been covering for a coworker all week, which means I will have worked seven days in a row by the time I'm done. At least it'll pay for all the eating out I've been doing.

On Wednesday, on a whim, I asked a friend of mine if she’d like to go out and get some margaritas and Mexican food after work. It was such a hot day and work was stressful and we got off at the same time and after all, it’s summer time.

So we went. We sat outside on the patio under an umbrella and drank the icy lime drink from tall glasses. I kicked my shoes off and put my bare feet up on the empty chair beside me. We ordered the lunch special, fajitas and they came out sizzling hot and deliciously tempting with scoops of sour cream and guacamole. There is something so satisfying about eating with one's hands.

Later, I went to the dog park with another good friend. Dogs spilled out of bushes, ran down the trails and splashed in the brook, noses down and tails up. They convened swiftly in loose groups, determining rank and gender, what everyone had for lunch.

Our two dogs leaped after one another in the field, looking like gazelles in the Serengeti. My friend has a Great Dane, a beautiful dog with a grey, speckled coat. She is about the size of a pony but plays just like a collie. Lynn is half her size, but was eager to join in the fun.

Afterward, my friend invited me over to her house for some torture and sweet potato fries. Ok, not really. Earlier in the week we had gone up to the outlet mall for some shopping and under the influence of yet another Margareta (I should really avoid those things!) I had assured her that yes, I really wanted to know what a Bear Crawl was.

Fast forward a couple days and I found myself doing a face plant in the carpet, wondering why I thought being in shape could possibly be worth this kind of agony. Bear crawls are deceptively simple. One gets down on all fours, both feet and hands on the ground and propels oneself forward as fast as possible. It hurts like hell and looks utterly ridiculous but damn if it doesn’t get results.

She showed me some other exercises with appealing names like the Dead Cockroach (which is worse, in its own way, than the Bear Crawl) and the Duck Walk. Before we knew it, over an hour had passed. I hurt all over and yet could feel the endorphins surging into my brain, as powerful as a drug and much more pleasant. I had drank four glasses of water, sweated just as much and laughed pretty much the entire time.

Later, we sat around the dinning room table as the light stretched low across the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The evening was warm and still and filled with the smell of sweet potato fries, which are so delicious it’s almost impossible to believe that they are in fact healthy. It’s been two days since then and I’m still sore.

Despite that, we’ve planned another work out session this evening and will continue torturing ourselves every other day until our men get back. It should make the time go by.