Less than Perfect...

... and feeling a bit less than laudable, really.

I work out at least 6 days per week. And I've been telling myself that I really don't like it. Like, at all.

Turns out I've been lying to myself. I may not like the physical exertion too much -- although I'll admit I am getting hooked on that feeling of accomplishment -- but I've learned tonight that I really relish the the solitude I have, like when I'm on that 10% incline in the 4th minute of a 5 minute interval, and the only thought going through my mind outside of "I'm pretty sure I'm about to die" is "My brother is going to pay and pay for reminding me about interval training."

Yeah, that's the stuff.

Because tonight, the Elder wanted to exercise with me. And although I felt some weird resistance to the idea, I shoved it to the back of my mind and told him of course. After all, I want him to like physical activity, and of the two of my children he is the most like me in his potential ability to permanently root himself to the couch. So hey, the boy wants to sweat it out with Mom? Bring it on!!

Except... well, not. The first twenty minutes were actually okay. We just got an elliptical this weekend because I needed another air conditioned cardio option and the price was right, and I hammered away at that for my first event of the evening. Since that's a newer "thing", I don't have a rhythm down yet really -- mentally or physically. It's new, and I'm learning about the machine and how my body handles it.

It's when I switched to the treadmill that the problem started. It just felt wrong. And then when I hit up the 10% incline, I was getting extremely frustrated because my rhythm was being affected by him gliding his leisurely way along on the elliptical.

And this might win me a total Bad Mommy award, but I finally ended up stopping for a bit so he and I could rework his "Sweatin' With the Oldie" session to be just the first part of my workout. Part of me feels terrible. He's disappointed that he can't do my entire workout with me, and I feel like The Most Unnatural Mother Ever. But part of me is also relieved, because my blessed solitude has returned and I can once again ponder my pending doom while continuing my mental bitch session at my much-maligned baby (6'-1") brother in peace.

I'm going to go pour the poor child a nice drink to attempt to salve my conscience a bit more, then it's back to the treadmill for me. I'm not going to let feeling guilty also cheat me out of a workout. I've just got to find another way to work around this.

Edited to add: The boy appears to have recovered. He just delivered a five minute dissertation to me about his Darth Maul character on the Wii Lego Star Wars game that Choreboy brought home this weekend. Whew.