For the past three Saturdays, David and I have left the house at 6:45 AM. I think we're totally insane for getting up this early on a Saturday morning especially since we leave the house every week day at 5:35 AM. Why do we leave the house this early -- we have a standing 7 AM appointment with our personal trainer.
We start with our warm-up-- David runs a 7 minute mile on the treadmill while I'm right next to him blazing on the elliptical. We than do our dynamic stretches; we plow through these at about the same pace. Then David starts to kick my butt. He lifts heavier weights, he can do more reps and blows me away with the ab routine. My flexibility is the only exercise I can do better than him.
As we're pumping the iron, twisting like a pretzel and trading weights between sets, I marvel that a 15-year old teenage boy will get up early on a Saturday to work out with his middle aged mom. The pain and fatigue from performing those exercises I just hate, melts away as I pretend to use my sweat towel to hide my bewildered, joyful tears. I find it difficult to articulate the joys of spending this time with David. I'm on borrowed time; I expect any day for David to realize it is just not "cool" to spend such time with his mother.
