Welcome my good friend Emily to The Chocolate and The Cheese today as she graciously enough wrote up a great post for us today. Em and I have been friends for years; roommates, classmates, moms-in-crime. I'm so grateful for her friendship and the fact that our lives have taken similar courses.
Take it away Emily!
My dear friend, MP asked me to write a guest post for this wonderful blog and true to form, I’m turning it in about a month late (oh, okay, six weeks)—but I haven’t just been procrastinating, I swear! The truth is that I’ve been struggling to come up with a post written cleverly enough to befit this space—no promises about the end result of my efforts.
Anyway, I considered writing about what a kind, intelligent and all-around wonderful person, MP is, but nixed the idea after realizing she’d probably just think that I was about to ask her for a REALLY big favor. So, instead I’m going to tell you about my guilty pleasure. We all have them, but mine is, perhaps, a wee bit more embarrassing than your secret stash of Us! Weekly or the cookies you hide behind the healthy snacks that you’re training your kids to eat. For those who know me in real life, no! I’m not going to write about Murder She Wrote; this is far worse than my affinity for J.B. Fletcher.
You may be wondering what could possibly be worse than a tattooed, supposedly hip, twenty-something winding down with J.B. Fletcher every night. Well, trust me, just... yeah, here’s how it goes down: Every afternoon, after feeding the kids lunch, laying the boy down for his nap and shutting the girl’s bedroom door (with strict orders to stay in her room and actually be quiet during “Quiet Time”), I creep down the stairs and shamefully pop in my favorite DVD. While I’m waiting for him too appear on screen, I close the drapes because quite frankly, there are some things that my neighbors just don’t need to see. Then there he is, lean but muscular, oiled and tanned in his short striped shorts and crystalled tank top and he says to me, “Let’s Sweat.”
That’s right, people, Richard. F*&#*n Simmons and for the next thirty-eight minutes and some-odd seconds, I sweat to the oldies, baby, and I love it. Go ahead and laugh, I know it’s funny, but something about him transforms me from my cynical, “I only run when I’m being chased” self into a person who really wants to push my body to be healthy. Maybe it’s because I know that he’s been in my shoes and has really struggled to get healthy, or because of his energy and enthusiasm (I can't believe I'm admitting this!). Whatever the case, when I’m done, I feel good; not just my body, but my whole self. I feel renewed and more like the glass-half-full (but twenty-five pounds lighter) kind of person I want to be.
So, while most of my friends see their cool boyfriend Gym a few times a week, I’m going to continue my secret, shameful, rendezvouses with my silly boyfriend, Richard.