Last night, after collard green handpies, cumin-roasted carrots, glasses of a wonderful Pinot Noir, cookies and two episodes of Downton (OMG Sybil), I posed a query to dear T: could we pretend I was on a business trip until 8am? Translation: I'd sleep in the basement and bypass much of the morning routine. Breakfast made, Ol's lunch packed, Jack ready to be picked up for carpool, etc. He agreed and I slept like the dead until 8:05. Bliss. And of course, everything was fine. I really only woke up because Ol is the "very special person" at school today and had plans to wear reindeer jammies under a Captain America suit in addition to bringing an enormous tote of books, toys and other generalized show-and-tell items like, critically, a whoopie cushion. It seemed to me that T might enjoy the slightest bit of help with that circus. Also I've got myself a trainer at the gym for two half-hour power sessions each week for a month. It was, by far, the most cost-effective way to have someone kick my butt. I like it.
I'm sitting still now because as today was the second of such sessions in the past three days, I really can't move beyond a rather slow and painful amble. I mean this in the best possible way; it's good pain, not really pain, but maybe you know what I mean? Intense soreness is more like it. I'm now off until Sunday but swear I will go to Pilates on Thursday so as to keep up my "regimen."
Tonight we're going to a meeting at J's school and tomorrow I am chaperoning his field trip so I'm taking full advantage of the quietude in my home right now. Nutmeg is hunting my legs rather aggressively so the peace is punctuated by surprised "NOs" and "STOP that." To no avail of course. Cats are so cat'ish, you know?