This morning, after dropping Jack at preschool, I drove to the gym. It wasn’t because I wanted to workout. In fact, I’d have just as soon written algebraic equations based on the condiments in my refrigerator or attempted potty training a manatee as going to the gym. But it’s what I do. Go to the gym. Everyday. There’s nowhere else I have to be. I’m lucky that way. But it feels hollow. No job to stress about. No PTA activities today. Not even a parole officer awaiting my urine specimen.
I think the distance between First Methodist Preschool and Fairview Fitness Center is probably about a mile and a half, though my last name is neither Garmin nor TomTom (and I’m glad. Weight, spelled this way is bad enough.) During the drive there I felt as if Depression were tailgating me in an unmarked car threatening to commandeer my vehicle and cut off my oxygen with its life sucking grip.
