Meet Me At The Gym

So, I'm at the gym with my friend and we're walking side by side on the treadmill talking away. We're oblivious to what's going on around us (it's a task to walk and talk and not fall down). This is therapy at it's best. We get to complain legitimately. I mean, we're "working out!" It just doesn't feel right to complain while we're in our cushy homes . . . no matter how many bathrooms we've got to clean, they are our bathrooms and for that we should be grateful. My home is far from a castle but it sure feels like one to me. So, when we're at the gym, it's okay, in my book, to complain about the sweating, the extra pounds (though even that we should be thankful for because we have enough to eat each day - well, maybe too much), I mean, we're "working out" and it's not easy (nor is it very pretty). My friend and I were complaining about how unfair it is that we work so hard at dieting and exercising and we still can't zipper our jeans unless we lay down on the bed . . . then my friend's husband (who apparently was walking on the other side of me for like 20 minutes without me noticing and apparently listening to our conversation) says, "Just think how fat you'd be if you didn't work out." I pulled the emergency cord on his treadmill and that was the end of that. . . . . . .