BerthaBlog

In my quest to deal with my expanding ass, I took up running on the treadmill. I was largely inspired by a poster on usenet, giving advice on the practice to another; I took his tips for myself and started going on the treadmill three days a week. I alternate running with walking, jogging until I’m tired and then walking a bit. The first week I could barely stagger an eighth of a mile before slowing to a walk.

I’m pleased to note that progress is being made. I don’t know if my ass is any smaller, but this morning I ran for half a mile before the first walking interlude, and probably could have gone farther if I were pushing myself. I always want to put off my morning workout, but can usually motivate myself to get it done by remembering how much better I feel afterwards. Nice to see some long-term payoffs for my efforts. Plus I can run up the stairs without getting winded.

I’ve always told my mate that I didn’t care if we were never rich; I prefer a plain, ordinary kind of lifestyle where I put my own dishes in the sink and do my own laundry.

He’s a smart guy. You’d think he would be happy to have a spouse with such low financial demands. But apparently not, because as a birthday present he took me to Fearrington Village to see how the other half lives. We spent a night in a plush, high-ceilinged suite that had its own little benches and fountain out front, and a jacuzzi bathtub big enough for both of us. We dined in a restaurant so fancy that the meals came in courses and the waiter seemed to feel that bringing them to us was the most delightful thing he’d ever done. There was a by-God French wine steward. There was a lady whose only job appeared to be making sure everyone’s water glass was full. When we got back to our rooms, the bed had been turned down. And yes, they left chocolates on our pillows.

I could get used to this sort of thing.